


Carry That Weight (A Long Time)

by PazithiGallifreya



Series: Carry That Weight [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon character deaths, F/M, Gen, Severitus, Severus Snape Lives, kind of severitus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-30
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 04:51:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 24
Words: 79,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6409513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PazithiGallifreya/pseuds/PazithiGallifreya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Voldemort is dead but Harry Potter's problems are far from over. Indeed, the very day after the battle, Harry Potter looks into a mirror and finds himself staring at a stranger and an old secret is brought to light. And what does this have to do with Severus Snape, still alive (unfortunately, as far as Snape is concerned) after being dragged out of the Shrieking Shack?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a mash-up of two admittedly well-worn Harry Potter fandom tropes - 'Snape lives!' & 'Surprise, Snape is Harry's Dad!' - but not in the usual way. It has been deliberately written to avoid making Harry & Snape out-of-character any more than the situation requires and begins at the end of Deathly Hallows rather than when Harry is a child. These two are Not Happy Campers, at least at first...
> 
> (I've done my best to proofread this multiple times, but I was unable to find a beta-reader. If you notice anything blatant/glaring, feel free to let me know)

_Boy, you're gonna carry that weight, carry that weight a long time..._

 

MONDAY, 2 MAY 1998

 

A dark figure lay crumpled on the floor where it had fallen hours ago. Blood no longer gushed from a jagged wound at the neck, but had slowed to a mere livid oozing. It did not move.

 

-

 

He drifted half out of time. Something had changed in the air around him, but he had no thought as to what it might be, and no will to care. He was dead, or ought to be. As he should be; a fitting end to a failed life.

 

-

 

His throat ached from thirst and more, but he could not move. The earlier numbness in his limbs and in his mind had been replaced by a burning pain that flared and receded in time with his sluggish pulse. Death would come for him, but did not seem to be in much of a hurry.

 

A point of light was moving in the distance, bobbing up and down in the cloying, humid darkness that surrounded him. Voices were speaking to one another, but he could not grasp their words. He shut his eyes against the growing light.

 

He'd done what he could to protect Lily's child, and failed in the end, as the one he had served had always intended. Could they not leave him now to his richly earned reward?

 

A warm breath ghosted against his face. His eyes opened. A pale face loomed above him. Large grey-blue eyes peered into his red-rimmed black ones.

 

“Hermione, Ron – come quickly! He's still alive!”

 

 _Bloody hell_ , he thought, then thought no more.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Consciousness returned slowly to Harry Potter. He stretched upon the four-poster bed and grudgingly opened his eyes. The windows of Gryffindor tower revealed a fine, sunny morning, approaching noon.

 

He reached out of long habit to the small table next to the bed, groping for his glasses and jamming them onto his face. They didn't quite seem to fit right. Perhaps he'd bent the frames during...

 

Harry scowled, groaning softly. The events of the days before – of the _year_ before – hit him with the force of a bludger. The soft pink fog between the moment of waking and full awareness dissipated completely, destroying the pleasant illusion of waking in his old bed at Hogwarts.

 

He was no longer a student at Hogwarts, though. Not for nearly a year, now. The room was quiet and empty, save for himself. His friends must have kept the others away, or perhaps they had come and gone already, the last month of classes and exams perhaps abandoned in the chaos of the war's abrupt end.

 

Harry did not even know whose bed he'd just slept in, although a student trunk sat at its foot and a Puddlemere United Quidditch team poster was tacked up crookedly to the wall nearby. Harry wondered if the owner was still alive to reclaim it. His own former bed, and Ron's, had been absent from the seventh year boys' dormitory room and he'd just gone down a door and collapsed onto the first he'd come to.

 

He wanted a shower, desperately. Better yet, a long soak. He ached terribly across the shoulders and over his back and felt as though he'd slept crookedly on his neck and a dull pain throbbed in his head. Fresh clothes would not be amiss, either. But there was work to be done. Harry dragged himself onto unsteady feet and stumbled toward the boys' toilets to relieve himself.

 

He washed his hands after and splashed blessedly cool water over his face. He caught his own reflection in the mirror after, barely, not caring what he looked like, particularly. Except...

 

He blinked at the image, which seemed... _off_. He put his glasses back on and nearly stumbled backwards. He looked strangely blurred about the edges, and as he stared, his reflection rippled and shifted almost like something swimming beneath the surface of the lake outside under a gentle breeze.

 

A stranger looked back at him. The eyes were his, Lily's brilliant green, almond-shaped eyes, as was the lighting-bolt scar and the sleep-mussed black hair, but the nearly bone-white skin, tapered jaw, high cheekbones and long hawk's-beak nose were decidedly _not_. He stumbled back from the mirror, almost itching with an eerie sense of half-recognition, as if trying to recall a distantly remembered acquaintance.

 

Harry blinked several times and rubbed at his eyes under his glasses for a long moment, then looked into the mirror again. Everything was as it should be. Well, he looked tired and somewhat underfed and certainly ungroomed. His hair was even messier than usual and, apparently, in need of a trim (a first, as it always seemed to stay the same length, even when his aunt Petunia had hacked at it with scissors in frustration with its untamable appearance during his childhood)... but he was definitely himself.

 

 _I must be going funny from stress,_ he thought.

 

There was a temptation to linger, to put off the inevitable. To pretend he was just rising late on a weekend morning, some distant lifetime ago, that everyone else was already up and off studying or out practicing on the Qudditch pitch, or wandering about the castle, or loitering over cups of tea and pumpkin juice at the long house tables with their friends. Part of him wanted to believe that nothing had happened, that he'd just awoken from a long nightmare.

 

He knew he should feel joy this day. Victory. Voldemort was dead! Truly, irrevocably _dead_.

 

A leaden weight in his heart would not allow him to feel it just now. Fred Weasley. Remus and Tonks. Little Colin Creevey, who used to drive him half mad following him around with that old Muggle camera. He would even miss Lavender Brown.

 

There was nothing for it though, but to get on with it. He came down the staircase and crossed the Gryffindor common room. The fireplace was empty, cold ash dusting the stones, no merry fire that he'd half expected, despite the warmth of the season. The house elves must have their hands full enough, he thought. They'd probably begun repairing the damage done to the castle before Voldemort's body was even cold.

 

The thought steeled him, somehow.

 

-

 

Few people were around to notice him at first when he stepped into the Great Hall. The injured, the dead and the dying were no longer there. He did not see Ron or Hermione, nor any of the teachers, although Argus Filch stood stiffly in a corner near the staff table, holding Mrs. Norris tightly in his arms, petting her almost absentmindedly as he gazed across the room at seemingly nothing in particular.

 

The four house tables had plates of sandwiches scattered about them, though few people seemed interested in them other than a few lingering students. Harry suddenly felt ravenous, however.

 

He sat down at the end of the restored Gryffindor table and pulled a plate toward himself, bolting down his late breakfast. Half a sandwich later, however, Luna materialized beside him, looking at him without saying a word for several minutes. After he'd finished chewing a tough bit of corned beef, she finally spoke, softly.

 

“We found him in the Shrieking Shack early this morning. Professor Snape. We went after you fell asleep. Hermione and Ron and I did, I mean. They explained what happened. He's still alive. He's up in the headmaster's office with Madam Pomfrey and some Aurors. I just thought you'd like to know.”

 

Harry stared at her dumbly as she smiled at him for a moment, and when he failed to respond, stood and wandered off. She'd just told him that—he wasn't sure how to process that bit of information and filed it away for later.

 

His appetite lost, Harry stepped back out into the hallway. Professor McGonagall approached him oddly, almost hesitantly. He found himself somewhat annoyed for reasons he was not sure of, but pushed the feeling aside, feeling foolish and unlike himself.

 

“Mr Potter... well I hardly know what to say, really. We're all so proud of you, my boy. So proud.”

 

She blinked at him oddly, then shook her head as though clearing her thoughts.

 

“This may not be the best time to bring this up, but I must tell you, if you decide to approach the headmaster's office, do not be alarmed--”

 

She paused, an expression of confusion that lasted only briefly before her grip on his shoulders suddenly brought him forward as she looked over his face intently.

 

“Potter--”

 

Harry leaned away from her.

 

“Er... what?”

 

She released her grip on him finally.

 

“Well, now I am not certain... Never mind. I mean to tell you, your friends – Miss Granger, Mr Weasley and Miss Lovegood – they returned early this morning with something of a surprise. A shock, really.”

 

On top of everything else, the usually succinct and well-spoken Professor's sudden dithering was wearing his patience.

 

“Luna told me just now, if you mean about Snape—”

 

Professor McGonagall cut off his sentence with a deep sigh.

 

“Yes, Severus Snape is alive, at least for the moment. He is currently in the headmaster's office under guard by several Aurors.”

 

Harry glanced down the hall as if he were considering bolting off toward the gargoyle, but Professor McGonagall stalled him with a raised hand.

 

“Professor—they can't—the Aurors don't understand, he's not what he seems, he's—“

 

“Peace, Harry. Your friends forestalled the Aurors when they returned with him. The Ministry are currently reviewing the contents of the pensieve, in fact.”

 

Harry swallowed against something thick gathering in his throat, an odd panic rising like bile. A strange fear overtook him, an almost childish worry about how Snape would react should he find out that the memories he had entrusted to Harry had been confiscated by the Ministry. Harry nearly laughed at himself, but stopped; he wasn't sure McGonagall would understand.

 

“I'm afraid I've already had a look myself. I had to know before I allowed him back into Hogwarts. After all, I had believed he'd murdered—”

 

She paused again, her eyes closing tightly. She turned from him, placing a hand behind his back, barely a touch but enough to move him to follow.

 

“Let's find somewhere to sit and talk, I think. Your friends are still here, although I believe Ginny Weasley left with her parents this morning.”

 

Harry followed his former transfiguration teacher down the hallway into a disused classroom. Harry recognized it as the one he'd attended Divination in with Firenze the centaur, after Trelawny had been sacked under Dolores Umbridge's reign of terror.

 

It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. The charmed forest-like interior was gone, at the moment, and a few dusty desks and chairs were pushed against one wall. McGonagall summoned two of the chairs with a flick of her wand.

 

“I trust you slept well this morning? Your friends were quite adamant that you not be disturbed. Several reporters have just been dismissed from the grounds, although I suppose we'll have to let them return eventually. I don't imagine we can hide you from them forever.”

 

Harry nodded silently. His head felt like it was packed with wool, somehow. Of course they would turn up. The Daily Prophet and probably every other wizarding paper from the continent, possibly beyond. He felt vaguely ill at the thought of speaking to any of them.

 

“Where is everyone, professor? Everyone that was in the Great Hall... I could not have dreamed all of the last year, I suppose.”

 

“Dreamed? Hardly. I should hope not, or we'll have to do this all over again. Are you feeling unwell? I wouldn't be surprised in the least if you were.”

 

“Er... no, Professor. Well, I feel a bit odd, I suppose, but not exactly unwell.”

 

She paused again and gave him that same piercing, searching look as earlier, before continuing.

 

“Hmm. I suppose I should fill you in on what has transpired while you slept. The seriously injured have been taken to St. Mungos and the rest are in the hospital wing. The few Death Eaters that fled are unlikely to remain free for long. Miss Granger and Mr Weasley are still here although I have not seen them since breakfast. The rest of Weasley's family left not long after you went to sleep this morning, although I suspect you will hear from them soon.”

 

Harry noticed she did not mention Fred Weasley directly, but he did not need her to tell him. No doubt they left to arrange for his burial. Harry leaned over, his gaze dropping to the flagstones of the floor and the weight of his elbows digging into his knees.

 

“Yes, they'll take care of—“

 

Harry lifted his gaze somewhat.

 

“What of Remus and Tonks?”

 

“I believe Andromeda Tonks has been contacted. They've been moved. I am not sure, I can find out perhaps.”

 

Harry scratched at the back of his neck, feeling overheated and claustrophobic. They'd probably be setting off fireworks in Hogsmeade after sunset, he thought idly. He remembered someone talking about the fireworks after the first time Voldemort had died (but not really).

 

“Professor McGonagall... er, Snape...”

 

He sat up straighter but couldn't quite meet her eyes. His insides felt twisted up, somehow. McGonagall waited a moment for him to finish his thought, but he couldn't find the words. He half expected her to correct him as usual, “ _Professor Snape, Harry_ ,” but the admonishment did not come.

 

“He may yet survive, it is too early to tell. One of the healers from St. Mungos managed to stabilize him and left a few hours ago. Madam Pomfrey is attending to him in the meantime. I believe Shacklebolt was standing guard over him earlier, but was recalled to the ministry quite suddenly. Proudfoot and Savage remain with him. You must understand, Harry—Severus is in great danger still. I believe he will be cleared in the end, but that will take time. The Ministry is rather chaotic at the moment.”

 

McGonagall suddenly leaned forward and took Harry's hands into her own, gently. She paused a moment, running a thumb over the back of his knuckles and studying his hands much as she had done his face earlier, but continued.

 

“I imagine the contents of that pensieve were quite a shock to you. They certainly were to me. I had never imagined—”

 

The woman's voice broke slightly and Harry was momentarily afraid she might begin crying. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to stand it.

 

“I always knew Albus had his own plans, but I never fully understood. If you feel ill-used, I cannot fault you. I certainly do, and have much less cause than you or even poor Severus. I misjudged him, badly, but I had no way to know. He was too good at fooling us all, thank Merlin.”

 

The grip on his hands tightened, almost becoming painful. Harry wondered if he should say something, offer some comforting word, but he could think of nothing.

 

“I do not know how you managed to come back to us, Harry, but I am grateful. You will never know how much.”

 

Harry looked up at her, finally, blinking back the tears that his former teacher now let fall.

 

“Can I... Can I see him, do you think?”

 

The words seemed to come from the room itself, he could not believe he had spoken them. Not even a full day before he'd hated the man more than he'd ever hated anyone, possibly more than he'd hated Voldemort himself.

 

McGonagall finally released her iron grip on his hands and stood as she fished a handkerchief from a pocket, seeming embarrassed as she wiped her face dry and schooled her features back to their normal staid demeanor.

 

“I'm afraid I do not know. The Aurors have not been allowing any but Madam Pomfrey to see him all morning. I can't imagine they'd deny you anything at this point, though, after all you have done for all of us. He has not truly regained consciousness yet, unless something has changed since I spoke with Madam Pomfrey an hour ago.

 

“That snake your friend Longbottom beheaded so neatly, I'm afraid, had grown in potency since the time it attacked Arthur Weasley. I believe the healer from St. Mungos who attended Severus earlier this morning took the animal's head with her to see about making a stronger antidote.”

 

Harry stood up, feeling unbalanced. McGonagall began walking toward the door before stopping to give him a look-over again.

 

“Professor...?”

 

“There is something odd about you today, I'm afraid. Perhaps... well I do not know. It may be nothing but an after-effect of some sort.”

 

Harry remembered the mirror.  
  
“After-effect? What do you mean?”

 

“Your face seemed to... change, earlier. It was very brief. I cannot say. There was quite a lot of magic flying about yesterday, some you may understand better than any of us at this point. Well... if you truly wish to visit Severus you will have to ask permission of the Aurors, the matter is out of my hands. I do not know if there is much point yet, either, as he is asleep most of the time and not lucid when he does wake.

 

“Your friends are somewhere about the castle, no doubt. Hagrid was also looking for you earlier. I think he may be rebuilding his home today. I'm sure he would not mind a bit of company.”

 

Harry's mood brightened a bit at that thought.

 

–

 

Harry left the castle and walked across the grounds toward where Hagrid's home once stood. The grass was scorched or browned in places, or churned into mud from passing feet, but nothing else lingered of the battle that had raged the night before.

 

Hermione and Ron were already with Hagrid. Harry stood at a distance, watching Hermione using her wand to cut and resize the massive timbers that Hagrid had dragged from the forest. Had anyone else attempted to fell a tree in that forest, Harry felt, they would not have survived the first axe blow.

 

Ron was sitting on a rejected log slowly petting Fang, who lay on the ground looking somewhat the worse for wear with singed fur and both of his front paws bandaged. For that matter, Ron did not look to be in much better spirits.

 

Well, that should not be surprising, thought Harry. He should have gone with Ginny, Percy, George and his parents, not stayed behind. Harry felt somewhat guilty at the thought that he'd probably stayed behind for _him_.

 

Hagrid noticed Harry after a moment and waved at him, smiling crookedly and beckoning him over. Once Harry was within reach, he was swiftly wrapped in a crushing bear-hug that lifted him off his feet. Hagrid sniffled loudly and Harry was briefly afraid he'd start crying in earnest. He wasn't sure he could take tears from a second Hogwarts teacher in one day.

 

Suddenly the half-giant seemed to remember himself and set Harry down, blushing slightly as he patted down Harry's wrinkled shirt. Hermione was looking at the two of them in a guarded fashion. Ron had glanced up but barely seemed to notice them, his hand still resting on Fang's broad head.

 

“Er, uh. Sorry 'bout that, Harry. Just, ye know... Thought we'd lost yeh there fer a while last night.”

 

Harry smiled in a way he hoped was reassuring. “Oh, uh. Yeah. Don't... don't think on it. It worked out in the end, right?”

 

“O' course, Harry. Course it did, ye surprised all of us. Quite a lot of surprises lately, er...”

 

Harry glanced at Ron, who was looking up at him somewhat blankly now. No, not everything had worked out in the end. Hagrid seemed to recover himself, giving Harry a more properly cheerful smile.

 

“Well, lots o' work to do, things to set to right. Hermione here has been helping me out, but if yeh need her back a' the castle for somethin' I can get along by meself a while.”

 

Harry shrugged and moved to sit beside Ron. Fang huffed and threw Ron's hand off his head to better lick it. Ron pulled his now-drenched hand away with an expression of mild disgust and stood.

 

“I can come back inside for a while, Harry. I don't think Hermione really needs me for this anyway.”

 

He wasn't looking at her when he said this. Hermione scowled at him and dropped the plank she'd been hovering in the air since Harry had arrived. Harry flinched slightly as it crashed to the newly-laid floor of Hagrid's incomplete hut.

 

“Ron, what I meant earlier was—“

 

“It doesn't matter, Hermione, just forget it.”

 

Harry looked between his two friends. Obviously he'd missed an argument of some sort. Hagrid simply shook his head at them and picked up the large piece of timber in one hand.

 

“Go on, the both of yeh, I'm sure there's plenty enough work to keep everyone busy. I can handle this.”

 

Hermione marched past the boys and strode back toward the castle. After a moment's hesitation, Ron gave in with a roll of his eyes and followed, Harry close behind.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

When they reached the castle, they discovered that there was not, in fact, a great deal to be done. House elves had cleared away all the debris and the school's professors were scattered about transfiguring new stone to replace broken bits of architecture and respelling protective charms that had been compromised or had failed entirely during the battle.

 

Harry stopped short suddenly outside a room off the great hall and Ron nearly walked straight into his back. He stopped and stared at the door, feeling as though someone had just stepped over his grave.

 

“He's in there.”

 

Ron stepped around him and tried the door handle and a quick _alohomora_ and found it was locked and warded.

 

“Who, exactly?”

 

“Voldemort.”

 

Harry felt sweat beading up on his neck. Hermione spoke to him slowly, as though he might be dense.

 

“Harry, Voldemort is dead.”

 

Harry continued staring at the door. Hermione took his hand in her own.

 

“You defeated him, Remember?”

 

He tried not to feel annoyed with her patronizing.

 

“Of course I bloody well know he's dead, Hermione. But he's in there. His... body, I guess.”

 

Hermione let out a breath she'd apparently been holding.

 

“Oh thank Merlin, for a minute there I thought you'd—Harry!?”

 

Hermione stepped around him bringing her face directly in front of his, their noses nearly touching. She was looking at him like McGonagall had earlier.

 

“Harry, your _face_ —”

 

Harry stepped back and turned away from her.

 

“Yea, I know, okay? Something funny's been happening since I woke up this morning. It's probably nothing. It just changes for a moment but it goes away. I was probably hit by a weird jinx or something yesterday.”

 

Ron stepped away from the locked door concealing the corpse of the most evil wizard in recent history and rushed over to him.

 

“Bloody hell, Harry! You look almost like Sn—Ow! What was that for?“

 

Hermione had stepped on his foot.

 

“Harry, one minute you looked like you always do and now... Oh, come on and look for yourself.”

 

Hermione grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward the toilets down the hallway. Ron blinked several times before trotting after them, his sore toes forgotten. Hermione pushed him through the door, trusting that with no classes, nobody else would be inside at the moment.

 

She went over to stand with him in front of the long mirror over the row of sinks.

 

The face that stared back at him was the one he'd seen briefly earlier, but even expecting it this time, it still managed to shock him. He struggled to draw in a breath, reaching out to touch the image of his face in the mirror.

 

His hand... even his hand was somebody else's now, he noticed. Long, thin fingers had replaced his own broader, sturdier ones. He stared at them, turning them over and back again, flexing them as though he were not quite sure they were actually attached to him.

 

Finally he placed them both on either side of his reflection, leaning close to the mirror.

 

“Hermione...”

 

He was breathing again, finally, but too rapidly. He could not stop himself. Ron came up and stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly.

 

A thin, pale face stared back at him through his own familiar almond-shaped green eyes and round-framed glasses, now somewhat crooked perched on a longer, narrower nose that had a slight hook at the end. He definitely had never had cheekbones like that before. His hair was black and messy but his fringe lay more or less flat against his forehead rather than sticking out at the sides and the ever-present cowlick at the back of his head was, for once, tamed.

 

He again had the weird thought that it looked like it needed a cut. He hadn't needed a haircut even once his life; it kept to the same length, no matter what his aunt did or had done to it, always returning to its original shape by the next morning.

 

“Harry, you haven't taken any potions lately, have you? Or had anything that tasted funny? Some kind of botched polyjuice maybe? Although it doesn't usually...”

 

Harry shook his head slowly, as did the stranger in the mirror. A black fog was gathering at the edge of his vision. He felt dizzy and moved his hands from the mirror to the edge of the sink, staring down at the brass tap and trying to steady himself. _It won't last, it will change back, like it did earlier._

 

“Some kind of glamour, then, a charm, maybe...”

 

He looked up, expecting to see himself again. He did not.

 

A weird sense of panic clawed at him.

 

“What did he do to me? What did Voldemort do to me? Some kind of last revenge, he did _something_ —“

 

Ron gave his shoulder another squeeze. “Bit of an odd sort of revenge, don't you think?”

 

Hermione stood looking at him still, a softness in her expression that might almost have been pity. Harry closed his eyes and tried to breath more slowly through his nose, mentally willing himself not to snap at his oldest friends. They were trying to help him, he knew.

 

When he opened them again, Hermione had stepped back and was staring out a window, thinking.

 

“Perhaps we should go find Professor McGonagall? There are plenty of ways to change a wizard's appearance, besides polyjuice, I've read about... well none of them sounded _exactly_ like this and I'd prefer not to... um, yes, let's just go find her, shall we?”

 

-

 

Harry did not speak while they wandered the nearly deserted hallways, trying to find Professor McGonagall or perhaps Professor Flitwick. Ron and Hermione walked behind him, content to let him lead the way, apparently, while they carried on a conversation between themselves.

 

“Hermione, I don't know why you won't just go. Everybody would understand, and it's not like I can't survive for a while on my own.”

 

“I never said that you couldn't!”

 

“So just go on, then!”

 

“They're safe enough where they are, and a few more weeks is hardly going to matter! I'll go after Fred's... I'll go _after_ , okay?”

 

Their voices then receded and Harry realized he'd left them behind. He backtracked to where they were still standing in a hallway, continuing an argument that had clearly started much earlier that day.

 

“Hermione, they're your family, you need them! It's not fair that... you should just have them with you, okay? They're your _family_...”

 

Harry stopped a few feet away from them, his unfamiliar face flushing with embarrassment. He suddenly felt like he was eavesdropping.

 

“Ron—“ She looked up as if she'd just noticed Harry's presence and sighed. “We can talk about it later, okay?”

 

Ron hesitated for a moment, then stepped toward Harry without replying to Hermione.

 

“C'mon mate, let's get you sorted out.”

 

Ron glanced back at Hermione before turning and taking the lead. They'd already checked most of the ground floor and other than a few stray students who had not left or been taken away by their parents, they'd failed to find anyone who might shed some light on what had happened.

 

Harry garnered a few odd looks from passers-by, but was suddenly grateful that nobody seemed to recognize him, now. He wasn't sure he could deal with being The Boy Who Lived (Twice) at the moment. Perhaps the change was a blessing in disguise, then. He pulled at his fringe, making double sure that it concealed his famous curse scar, which, like his eyes, had not changed one jot.

 

-

 

Harry picked at a loose thread on the sleeve of his shirt and watched as motes of dust danced in the afternoon sunlight filtering through the high windows of the library. They'd been unable to locate Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick, or any other Hogwarts instructor who might have had something to say.

 

Even Madam Pince was absent from her desk, leaving them free to ransack the stacks of books without interference. Hermione had stepped through the shelves, knowing precisely where to go, as though no time at all had passed since she'd last visited the Hogwarts library. She had pulled books off the shelves with precision, passing them to Ron or Harry without comment until they were both struggling under the weight of them.

 

Now, Harry sat beside her as she flipped through book after book on charms and potions and even transfiguration that might be used to change someone's appearance. Occasionally she glanced over at him, as though she were afraid he might evaporate into the air. Ron had sat beside them for a few minutes, then gone to pace about restlessly between shelves before coming to rest standing with his hands behind his back in front of a window, his back turned on Harry and Hermione.

 

Harry thought about their argument earlier. He felt both guilty and slightly jealous at the same time. Guilty that his friends seemed to be putting off time with their own families to look after him, and an old jealousy that they had family to be putting off in the first place. He thought he'd gotten past such feelings towards his friends and the resurgence of that longing made him feel a tad shameful.

 

He wondered how Dudley was getting on, wherever he was. Maybe some day he'd go find his cousin and see how he was doing. It was odd to think that when they'd parted they'd... well, not exactly liked one another, but Harry felt that they'd sort of gotten over something, maybe. He didn't care if he ever saw his uncle and aunt again, though.

 

He knew he could not go looking for the cracked stone that had fallen to the forest floor as he had gone to meet his fate at the hands of Voldemort. He'd told the portrait of Albus Dumbledore as much and he meant to stand by it. His parents were dead. So was his godfather, and now many of his friends. He now felt certain he would meet them all again, when the day came that he died, but they were, for the time being, beyond his reach. There was a feeling of danger in longing after them too much; Harry recalled Dumbledore's warning about the Mirror of Erised back in his first year. Knowing that didn't take away that empty aching feeling, though.

 

Harry reminded himself that he still had friends here and now, two of whom were taking time out of their own lives to help him at the moment. He tried not to fidget as Hermione worked, scratching notes on a spare bit of parchment she'd taken off the absent Librarian's desk. Someone walking by might have thought them to be studying for an exam. They had spent more than enough evenings just like this, surrounded by stacks of books, Hermione doing most of the hard searching while Harry and Ron faffed about. In some universe where there had never been any Voldemort, they might have been studying for their N.E.W.T.s this very minute.

 

Harry picked up a book Hermione had already discarded, a thin tome with the title _Fair Witch Charming._ It was a collection, apparently, of charms used to change hairstyles and mimic cosmetics. His mind drifted back to the Yule Ball during the Tri-Wizard Tournament and he idly wondered if Hermione had used any of them then. It had seemed like an overwhelming event at the time, but now he felt childish thinking about how nervous he'd been over a school dance, given what had happened after.

 

He wondered if everything in his life was going to be like this, now. He almost felt that a line had been drawn across his life. Or perhaps a massive, impassable wall. Was everything now to be split between _before_ and _after?_ He suddenly felt like he'd aged a century in less than a day.

 

He was pulled from his meandering thoughts as Hermione suddenly snapped shut an old, thick book she'd pulled from the Restricted section and stared at him, her mouth slightly open as though he'd just shouted something vulgar. She stood and turned away from him, walking over to retrieve Ron and pull him back toward the table.

 

Hermione began shoving books back into Harry's and Ron's arms, all except that last book, which she kept tucked under one arm. Harry looked at Ron, who shrugged.

 

“Er, Hermione?”

 

She gave him another look, the worry on her face giving him a bad feeling. The expression passed and she gave him a strained smile.

 

“If the two of you don't mind, just put the rest of the books over on the resorting shelf, or Madam Pince will be even more annoyed with us than usual. I think we really do need to speak Professor McGonagall and Flitwick first, though.”

 

Harry tried to read the title on the spine of the book she had kept out, but the old, ragged cover was too faded to discern.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Hermione hesitated. Harry's patience snapped and he reached for the book in her arms, but she turned away from him, dodging the grab.

 

“Harry, I don't want to speculate, not about something like this. _Please_ just be patient, I don't _know_ anything yet. Not for certain. Why don't the two of you wait in the Tower or maybe the Great Hall? I'll come find you when I have something to report.”

 

Ron unceremoniously dumped his armful of books on the resorting shelf and then grabbed Harry's stack out of his arms to do the same with them. He gave Hermione a questioning look and she just shook her head at him.

 

“Sorry, mate. You know how it is when she gets like this.”

 

Harry ignored Ron, not content to be left waiting around while other people discussed him behind closed doors. He'd had more than enough of that for one lifetime.

 

“Hermione, whatever it is you are thinking, I have a right to know. This is my life. You of all people should know by now what happens when people don't bother to tell me what I need to know.”

 

Hermione sighed and looked about the room, avoiding Harry's stare. She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment and came to some sort of decision, again meeting his gaze.

 

“Oh, fine, you're probably right. But promise me you won't do anything, er... rash.”

 

Harry raised one now finely arched eyebrow at his friend.

 

“Why would I do something 'rash'?”

 

She hesitated again, glancing at Ron as though looking for support.

 

“Harry... there is a charm, a somewhat dangerous and definitely illegal one, that can be used to change someone's appearance permanently... if, that is, it is used before or immediately after that person is born. It isn't generally considered reversible but sometimes it can fail under extreme circumstances, such as being subjected to repeated, powerful curses or hexes.”

 

Harry stared at her as he absorbed the information.

 

“But, Hermione, why would anyone have done that to me? And _who_ would have?”

 

Hermione stared down at her feet, not answering him immediately.

 

“Harry, I'm not even entirely certain that's what this is, okay? Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”

 

-

 

The gargoyle outside the Headmaster's office refused to let them through, although they'd tried every password they'd ever known. Granted, those passwords had all belonged to Albus Dumbledore. Harry doubted Severus Snape would ever utter the phrase “fizzing whizbee” to access his own office.

 

They'd run out of any other ideas, though, having searched through most of the castle. They'd finally run into Professor Sinistra earlier. Harry had hanged back, letting Hermione speak to the Astronomy professor to inquire if she'd seen McGonagall or Flitwick. She'd glanced over at Harry, her expression slightly confused but unconcerned. She had not spoken to him or, apparently, recognized him at all. She had also not been able to tell them anything useful.

 

Finally the three of them gave up, wandering back down toward the Great Hall. Harry shuddered involuntarily, again, as they passed the locked room where Voldemort's body lay. They had walked a few yards further when the door suddenly opened and both of the professors they'd been seeking all afternoon stepped out, the tall transfiguration instructor with a hardened look on her face and the small charms professor looking as though he might faint at any moment.

 

Harry, Ron and Hermione stopped and watched the two of them, unsure if it was was wise to approach them just yet.

 

They were spared the decision, however, as McGonagall and Flitwick came over to them on their own. Professor McGonagall stopped short, however, peering at Harry, who was all but hiding behind the tall frame of Ron Weasley.

 

“So it's not going away, now, then, Mr Potter?”

 

Hermione clutched the book she was carrying, squeezing the fragile binding in an uncharacteristic manner (she normally treated books like veritable holy objects). She glanced at Harry, waiting to see how he'd respond. Professor Flitwick stepped around McGonagall and looked up at Harry.  
  
“Minerva, are you sure this is Mr Potter?”

 

Harry blushed and forced himself not to duck further behind Ron, feeling suddenly very young, as if he were a first year being called up to the front of class again. Hermione was chewing at her bottom lip again and Harry knew she was about to make some sort of decision.

 

Hermione opened the book she was carrying and flipped a few chapters in, placing her finger at the page she'd searched up earlier and thrust the book toward Professor McGonagall without preamble.

 

McGonagall hesitated a moment, then took the book, careful to open it to the place Hermione had indicated. She pulled out her reading glasses and began scanning the text as they stood in the hallway. A few students walked past, stopping to stare at them before a hard look from McGonagall sent them on their way.

 

McGonagall snapped the book shut, keeping one finger at the chapter she'd just read and put her reading glasses back into a pocket in her robes. She looked Harry over again like he were one of the jarred specimens in Snape's old office. He shivered slightly, feeling like something was crawling over his skin. Shame crept up the back of his neck, feeling under her gaze as though he'd committed some error, but he did not know what.

 

“Filius, I think we'd better retire to a more private location.”

 

Flitwick merely nodded and glanced over at Harry before walking off toward Firenze's old Divination classroom. Harry felt like he'd been spending entirely too much time in there lately. He wanted to stop them and ask about what they'd been doing in the room with Voldemort's corpse but pushed his curiosity aside.

 

Impatient with their hesitation, apparently, McGonagall turned her head and spoke over her shoulder without slowing her stride.

 

“Well? The three of you had better come along then.”

 

-

 

Harry sat in the old chair where he'd been pushed by Ron, with Hermione seated on his other side, as though the two of them thought they could shelter him between them from whatever was to come.

 

McGonagall had seated herself, crossing one leg over the other under her robes and was waiting for Flitwick to finish reading the chapter that Hermione had brought to them. The diminutive charms professor kept glancing up at Harry every few moments with an increasingly sad expression.

 

Harry was starting to get fed up with other people's apparent pity toward him. He wasn't some fragile thing who would crumble under every difficulty. He'd fought Voldemort at dawn that very morning! Why were they all walking on eggshells about him?

 

He cleared his throat noisily and caught McGonagall's attention.

 

“Professor, would you _please_ just tell me what's going on?”

 

McGonagall looked over at Flitwick, who finally closed the heavy book and set it aside. She did not answer Harry's question.

 

“Well, Filius?”

 

“Just a moment, Minerva.”

 

Flitwick glanced at her meaningfully and reached into his robes for his wand. He stood up and levitated his chair directly in front of Harry, and stood upon it. He pointed his wand directly between Harry's eyes and incanted something unfamiliar. Harry shivered slightly but nothing seemed to happen.

 

Flitwick scratched at his scalp for a moment, then cast another spell, this time beginning with his wand above Harry's head and moving it in a sweeping motion down and across him in a curving line. A slight shimmer flared around his entire body, giving off a wavering golden hue, then dissipated.

 

Flitwick gave him another pitying look and it was all Harry could do not to reach out and shake him. He must not have kept his annoyance out of his expression though, as McGonagall cocked an eyebrow at him and pursed her lips.

 

“Harry, we are doing our best to _help_ you, do please have a little patience. I am afraid this is not a simple matter.

 

“Filius?”

 

Flitwick stepped down off his chair and returned his wand to the pocket in his robe.

 

“He is not currently under the effect of any charm, but most definitely has been quite recently, and a very powerful one. Hmm. I do wonder...”

 

Flitwick turned and looked at Harry again, suddenly pulling his wand back out and casting yet another spell. A buzzing in his ears that faded after a few seconds was the only effect he could discern, but the spell appeared to indicate something to Flitwick, who sighed as he continued looking at Harry for several long moments.

 

“Yes, as I suspected. An echo of Lily's magical signature. I'd recognize it anywhere. She was so very talented at charms when she was a student, I should not be surprised she'd been able to... well.”

 

Harry's temper flared, finally slipping the tenuous control he'd exercised all morning as he stood, his chair skittering backwards. Hermione and Ron both stood a heartbeat later, ready to restrain him, apparently, if necessary, which only annoyed him more. Hermione's gentle hand on his arm stalled him somewhat, but not enough to keep him silent.

 

“Somebody had bloody better well tell me what is going on. Why the hell do I look like this!?”

 

Flitwick flinched slightly, stepping back and looking to McGonagall for some sort of direction, but McGonagall did not react to Harry's outburst.

 

“Mr Potter, sit down. And do please watch your language. This is a serious situation but it is certainly not life-threatening nor does it portend the end of the world. After all, Voldemort is quite dead and any other matter certainly seems minor by comparison.”

 

Harry stood a moment longer, not sure if he wanted to challenge her or do as she said. After all, he was technically no longer her student; it was not as though she could take house points or assign him a detention anymore. _Of course_ , a small voice said in the back of his mind, s _he could always just throw you out. Then where would you go?_

 

Finally, as Hermione tugged at his sleeve gently, he relented, pulling his chair back underneath himself and sitting stiffly. The moment's energy drained from him and his earlier feeling of exhaustion returned.

 

Ron remained standing, shifting slightly behind Harry as though guarding him. Hermione sat down beside him.

 

“Fine, fine... okay, Professor. Um...”

 

“Harry, I'm afraid the answer to your current situation is not easy one. A charm, apparently, was placed upon you many years ago, quite probably weeks before you were born, by your own mother, which altered your appearance. This sort of charm is rare, difficult and intended to be permanent. But I suppose what you experienced last night at the hands of Voldemort... well the charm _can_ be broken if subjected to multiple powerful curses.”

 

McGonagall paused in her explanation, considering something. She looked momentarily as though she might begin weeping again, but the moment passed.

 

“Last night was just one killing curse too far, apparently.”

 

Harry rubbed at his forehead, the headache he'd awoken with returning with a vengeance.

 

“But why would my mother have done something like that, Professor? I don't understand—“

 

McGonagall stood and began pacing the room. Flitwick's face reddened as he looked anywhere but at his three former students. McGonagall's pacing stopped and she returned to stand before Harry and his friends.

 

“Harry, I cannot say with absolute certainty, but... well, I am not sure how to put this, ah, delicately, but...”

 

McGonagall paused again, looking this time at Ron and Hermione, then at Flitwick.

 

“Perhaps the rest of you could leave us in private?”

 

Flitwick breathed a sigh of apparent relief and motioned Hermione and Ron toward the door. He picked the book up off the floor and handed it over to McGonagall before departing. Hermione paused at the door after Ron had stepped out into the hall.

 

“Harry, if you need us later, we'll wait in the Great Hall. It's nearly dinner time anyhow. Come find us later, alright?”

 

She glanced at McGonagall briefly, who nodded at her, dismissing the younger witch. She took over Flitwick's abandoned perch and sat down in front of Harry, setting the book in her lap and gently taking Harry's slim, unfamiliar hand in her own.

 

“Harry, this particular charm... it has been used in the past primarily to hide a child's true identity. Sometimes during war, sometimes by families suffering under persecution... but it's most common use by far has been to...”

 

McGonagall hesitated for a moment. Harry stared down where his hand was held within hers, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

 

“Well, Harry, I'm afraid you may have to consider the possibility that James Potter is not your father by blood. I know you have seen your own reflection by now, you must see that you no longer look at all like him?”

 

Harry stopped breathing, now staring up at her as though she'd just slapped him.

 

“No, Professor, that's... that's just not... It can't be possible. My parents, they...”

 

Harry stood suddenly, pulling his hand from her grasp, overcome with a sudden need to escape, his mind rushing back to memories of the night before, his mother and father both walking beside him through the woods... McGonagall did not move to stop him, but remained seated, staring at the door through which he'd hastily departed long after he'd left.

 

“Well, Minerva, you could have handled that better,” she said to herself. She looked at the chair where he'd just been sitting between his two oldest friends, the Golden Trio as some of the staff had somewhat sardonically called them in the staffroom in years past (or quite venomously, in Severus's case).

 

As she'd looked at Harry, though, her mind had gone to even more distant memories, of another troubled young man she'd once taught, and later had worked with for years, but apparently had never really known at all. A man who now teetered between life and death.

 

She knew that he and Lily had been friends, at least, at one point. Perhaps they had been more than that, however briefly. But if he slipped away before she could get the truth out of him, Harry may never have answers. She felt she owed the Slayer of Voldemort (as the papers had already labeled Harry, a fact she hoped he would not discover for at least a few days) at least that much.

 

“Well, Lily, you've certainly set the cat among the pigeons now.”

 

After a moment's brief regret, she gathered herself and stood, tucking the mouldering book with its damning testimony under an arm as Hermione had done before, steeling herself for a conversation that she knew would not be easy.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Harry found himself standing before the door that McGonagall and Flitwick had exited earlier. It was again locked and impervious. Harry had tried every unlocking charm he'd ever learned, and had left a line of merely superficial scorching with a powerful blasting curse whose rebound had nearly knocked him off his feet. All to no avail. It had probably been Flitwick himself who had shut it up, and he did not hold out much hope of being able to break it open. Perhaps Hermione might know how.

 

Harry's frustration peaked, suddenly, and he resorted to physically jerking at the handle and kicking at the door itself, just to let off some steam. He got a sore foot for his trouble and felt hardly better when he was done.

 

He gave up and leaned his aching forehead against dark wood, sliding to the floor to sit with his back against the recalcitrant door. He didn't know why it mattered so much, suddenly, that he should have access to the room with Voldemort's physical remains.

 

He wanted to see for himself that his tormentor was well and truly dead, perhaps. To know, with absolute certainty, that the man who had murdered his parents ( _both_ of his parents, whatever idiot thing McGonagall might have gotten it in to her head to believe) could never come back.

 

Harry rubbed at his sore, tired eyes under his glasses, trying to ignore the unfamiliar planes of his face. She was wrong. All of them were wrong. McGonagall and Flitwick. Even Hermione. They _had_ to be wrong.

 

He was James Potter's son. Everyone always told him how he was just like his father. Not just that he looked like his father, but _was_ like him. Sirius and Remus and many of his teachers had meant it kindly. Snape had meant it as an insult. But either way it was always... _Oh, you're so much like James Potter._

 

To suggest that he was... McGonagall might as well have called him a bastard to his face. And to suggest...! His mother wouldn't have... he couldn't even complete the thought. And who on Earth else could possibly....? Harry ran a hand over his face, rubbing at the long, thin line of his nose. A traitorous voice whispered at the edge of his mind that his reflection held a certain familiarity indeed, but the thought incensed him and he mentally shoved it away, feeling suddenly disgusted with himself for even considering that what McGonagall had suggested might be true.

 

His parents had loved each other. They had loved _him_. They had loved him enough to both die trying to protect him. To suggest... it was a lie and an insult to their memory.

 

His friends would be waiting for him in the Great Hall, as they'd promised. No doubt the house elves would provide dinner for those who remained. The castle had nearly been restored to its former condition, in less than twenty four hours. It was astonishing, really, but he'd known that house elves had strange and powerful magic. He thought about Dobby and swallowed against the pain his heart.

 

Harry dragged himself to his feet and left for the Great Hall. He was sure he could convince Hermione that she'd simply been mistaken. It was all just a misunderstanding, after all. She'd just been trying to help, but had come to the wrong conclusion, clearly. Whatever had happened to him, he was certain it could be reversed, they just had to figure out how.

 

There would be time to deal with it. After all, it's not as though they had to worry about Voldemort and his pack of Death Eaters anymore.

 

-

 

Harry slipped in quietly. Those students who remained were clustered together at the far ends of the two tables in the center, up close to the staff tables, heedless of the crests that were on their robes. The four houses were mingled together now, even a clutch of young Slytherins crowding together at the end of the Hufflepuff table. Harry smiled to himself at the sight. It formed a bright spot in his otherwise dark thoughts.

 

Harry looked up at the staff table. The headmaster's chair was empty, as was Professor McGonagall's. Flitwick was seated in his customary spot, as was Hagrid, Sinistra and Sprout. Slughorn was absent and Harry wondered if he'd left for good, perhaps returning to his retirement for some peace and quiet. Vector and Hooch were in conversation at the end of the table. Trelawny was absent, but had often taken meals privately in her office in previous years and had probably returned to the habit.

 

Harry looked over the huddled students, finding his friends at the end of the Ravenclaw table. Ron was seated between Hermione and Luna, across from a trio of Slytherin fourth years that Harry didn't know the names of. A few other students glanced at him in puzzlement, not recognizing him either as Harry Potter or, indeed, as anyone they knew at all, but Harry wasn't in the mood to explain.

 

Luna moved over to make room for him, giving him a warm smile and apparently unperturbed by his altered appearance. Ron and Hermione must have warned her, Harry thought. It was nice of her not to make a big deal out of it.

 

Harry ate with his friends in a companionable silence, listening to the chatter and conversation of the students around them. He overheard a few of the students discussing some sort of celebration which was planned in Hogsmeade that night, and whether or not the teachers would allow them to attend.

 

Harry himself felt in no mood for fireworks and revelry. The dead were not yet buried, not even Voldemort himself. He regretted now that in his hasty flight earlier, he hadn't asked McGonagall what was meant to be done with Voldemort's body. He felt he ought to have some say in the matter, at least, but did not know if others would see it that way.

 

After he'd finished picking at his food, he leaned over to tell Ron and Hermione that he was going to head up to Gryffindor tower for another night. Ron said they'd be along in a bit, but the two of them were still lingering over pudding and, probably, the same argument from before once he was out of earshot.

 

He left the hall and began making his way through the castle in no particular hurry. It was not yet late, even. Soft footsteps behind him turned out to be Luna, who had caught him up. She came to walk beside him, content to let him lead the way.

 

He stopped to watch a painting in which a knight was chasing a small dragon-like creature in and out between the trunks of several trees.

 

“Are you alright, Harry?”

 

“I'm fine, Luna.”

 

The knight had grabbed the scaly creature by the tail and was now fending off small spurts of flame that singed the edge of his cape.

 

“Hm. I'm not sure you are being entirely truthful with me.”

 

“I managed to defeat Voldemort once and for all and live to tell about it, that seems pretty fine to me.”

 

Harry turned to look at her.

 

“Okay, maybe I'm a little bit not fine, I admit. Fred and Remus and Tonks are gone. And so many others. I'm not fine with that.”

 

Luna smiled softly at him in that far-away manner of hers, her pale eyes reflecting the light of a torch on the wall a few feet away.

 

“Well, of course. That is to be expected. But I meant finding out today that your appearance was a charm all along. That might be upsetting, I think.”

 

Harry turned back to the painting, watching the knight trying to pull his cloak out of the tiny dragon's mouth, who was tearing at it with its jaws like a dog playing tug-of-war now.

 

“I suppose Ron and Hermione told you all about it, did they? They don't know what they're on about. They're wrong, you know.”

 

“Harry, I know the truth can be hard to accept sometimes. People are always angry when you try to tell them something they don't want to know. Like when they've got a problem with wrackspurts but don't want to admit it.

 

“Sometimes we worry about how others will treat us, or worry that we aren't who we think we are. But you're the same person today as you were yesterday, you know. You're just different on the outside now. But it doesn't really matter, does it?”

 

Harry shook his head watching the knight running between the trees within his frame, trying to escape from his dragon now that he'd caught it.

 

“I don't suppose Hermione told you what she thinks the charm was _for_ , did she?”

 

Luna shook her head.

 

“Well, I imagine your mother must have had a good reason for wanting you to look the way you did. But you shouldn't be angry with her. She loved you, so of course she wanted to protect you.”

 

Harry turned to glare at her, as though daring her to say more. He knew it was unfair to be angry with Luna; none of this was her doing. But he couldn't quite stop the feeling either. Luna paid no mind to his change in mood.

 

“You'll feel better in the morning, I'm sure. I think I might join some of the others in Hogsmeade, myself. I do so love fireworks.”

 

With that, she turned and left him standing in hallway as the knight in the painting behind him ripped his burning cloak off and stamped on it to put out the flames while the small dragon flapped in circles around his head.

 

-

 

Minerva McGonagall was seated in one of Albus Dumbledore's old armchairs. It had been removed from this office during Severus's tenure as Headmaster but at some point during the day, someone had retrieved it from wherever it had been stowed away. Poppy, perhaps.

 

Minerva sat watching Severus Snape sleep fitfully on the transfigured bed (formerly the headmaster's desk, as it would be again once it was no longer needed for its current purpose). She'd been seated there for several hours now, having foregone dinner in lieu of keeping vigil over her suffering colleague in the hopes that she could be there when he finally awoke.

 

It seemed odd to her for them to keep him in here, rather than in the hospital wing, or even his own quarters a floor up, but the Ministry had decided this room would be the most easily secured and so here he stayed, under the watchful eyes of the school's former headmasters and the Ministry itself.

 

The Aurors named Proudfoot and Savage were perched like a pair of patient vultures in opposite ends of the Headmaster's office, as though there were some risk the former Death Eater might actually attempt to flee. It was a laughable notion, really. He slept, mostly, and had barely the strength to lift his own head when awake, according to Poppy Pomfrey.

 

Poppy attended his needs as well as she could while also looking after those that were currently in the hospital wing. The healer from St. Mungo's had managed to stabilize him, using knowledge gained from treating Arthur Weasley and more blood-replenishing potions than had probably ever been used on a single wizard in such a short span of time before. Severus' wounds were far more serious than Arthur's had been. The antidote developed before had not entirely worked for Severus either, as the snake's venom had changed somehow, or perhaps had simply been made more potent. Either the staff at St. Mungo's would find a new antidote, or not.

 

He will not die, she told herself. Well, probably not. The poor bastard had certainly survived worse scrapes before. Minerva simply couldn't imagine him dying like this. He was far too stubborn.

 

The former headmasters of Hogwarts snored gently from their frames, or else had slipped off to visit other canvases elsewhere in the castle, seemingly unwilling to disturb their (barely) living counterpart. Severus Snape was, technically, still the headmaster, as far as the castle's wards seemed concerned, despite his technical abandonment of the post earlier and his current incapacitation.

 

It had taken some convincing to get the two Aurors to let her stay at all. One or the other, sometimes both, stood watch at all times. The ministry could not, apparently, spare any others. They'd lost too many and of the survivors, some, like Dawlish, had taken to Voldemort's influence over the Ministry too readily and could not now be trusted.

 

The news that Shacklebolt had been installed as the Minister of Magic earlier in the day, at least for the time being, had not really surprised Minerva. It would take a while for him to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were, within the Ministry ranks. Severus Snape was hardly a priority at the moment.

 

Well, not for the Ministry. For Minerva, however, he was at the utmost of her mind. She needed answers. Not for herself, this time—the pensieve had satisfied her as to the man's true allegiances well enough, right before it was confiscated as evidence along with its troublesome contents—but she needed answers of another sort entirely for Harry's sake.

 

She thought it odd that the young man remained at the castle, now. He had not returned to classes after Dumbledore's death the prior year, preoccupied as he was with cutting all of Voldemort's remaining ties to life. _Horcruxes_. The very word tasted like bitter gall in the mouth. To think that the poor child had carried around a portion of that madman's soul all these years. No wonder he was short-tempered sometimes. Although, she supposed, perhaps he came by that more honestly than she'd previously thought.

 

And now this new revelation, right on the heels of his victory. It was almost all too much. Perhaps that was why he stayed, wanting to linger in familiar surroundings. It could not be healthy in the long run, but if clinging to the last trappings of his childhood for a few days helped him cope with the loss of so many friends, she could hardly begrudge him a spare bed in Gryffindor tower.

 

She did not hold out much hope that he would return to complete his seventh year, after everything that had happened, but she would certainly welcome him if he chose to do so. He'd once told her he wanted to be an Auror. Glancing at the two unimpressive examples currently occupying the room, she thought they'd be foolish not to take him immediately, N.E.W.T.s or no N.E.W.T.s.

 

As for his appearance, she knew he balked at the obvious, and why. Harry would not allow himself to even consider the evidence of his own eyes. That he might not be the son of James Potter in blood was anathema to his mind; indeed his very sense of self and identity. And just who his actual father might be, well...

 

The two had hardly ever been on even polite terms, something which Minerva could not blame Harry for. No, that fault rested with Severus himself, or perhaps all those who had failed him so many years ago, including herself.

 

Severus wore bitterness like he wore that billowing black cloak – wrapped up in a thick layer of his own pain to keep away anything and anyone who might dare come close. Only the headmaster had ever had his confidence, although now she understood that even that might not have been terribly well deserved and certainly never rewarded.

 

There was a veritable chasm which lay between this man and the rest of humanity. For all of Albus's attempts at pushing the two of them toward some sort of reconciliation, what hope could Harry ever have had? To expect an adolescent to cope with, never mind overcome, the deep wounds of a very troubled adult had been foolishness at the very least, if not outright recklessness and cruelty, in some ways for the both of them.

 

Albus had certainly misjudged the depths of Severus's emotional problems and it was Harry who had borne the brunt of his mistake. Albus had admitted as much to her later, in the weeks after the disaster at the Ministry and Sirius Black's death.

 

 _Too little, too late_ , Minerva thought. Though now she wondered if Albus had known all along that Harry's parentage was in question, or at least suspected. He may have had greater motive in trying to force the two of them to come to some sort of understanding than she'd once thought.

 

Then there was the notion that Harry's mother might have been somewhat less than an absolute Saint. It was a hard pill to swallow for a teenager who still idolized the memory of his parents, whatever precocious maturity may have been thrust upon him by his circumstances. In time she hoped he would come to understand that people are complicated and often inexplicable creatures, and always, always imperfect.

 

There was one person still living, however tenuously, who might be able to shed some light on the young man's physical transformation. Poppy Pomfrey assured her that he ought to be able to speak, although he had not yet chosen to do so in his brief periods of consciousness. Whether or not he would be entirely lucid was another matter.

 

She hated the idea of deliberately waking him, but this could not wait indefinitely. Harry's distress could only grow with the uncertainty. And while the truth might wound him, in the end it would be better to be certain than to let it pass out of living memory entirely. Then perhaps he could begin to heal.

 

As might another wounded young man.

 

_Not so young anymore, Minerva, though, is he?_

 

Minerva McGonagall leaned forward, squeezing the shoulder of her former student gently.

 

“Severus, wake up.”

 

His eyes stirred but did not open. She shook him as gently as she could, not wanting to interfere with the charmed and potion-soaked bandages wrapped about his savaged neck and shoulders.

 

“Severus, wake up—”

 

He gasped, his face drawing up into an expression like a silent scream, a hand weakly coming up as though trying to ward off a blow. Minerva leaned back in her seat, waiting for him to realize where he was (she hoped).

 

“Severus—“

 

He settled somewhat, the scarred arm falling to hang limply halfway off the bed. Minerva placed a hand softly on a pale bicep, ignoring the forearm where the Dark Mark still lay faintly just beneath his skin. She'd hoped, for his sake, that it would disappear entirely along with its originator, but took some comfort at least in the knowledge that it could never burn him again.

 

One eye cracked open slightly and peered up at the ceiling, the other following reticently.

 

The Auror named Savage took a step forward from his perch near the window, some pronouncement seemingly on the tip of his tongue. Minerva pinned him back to his place with a sharp glance and shook her head subtly to keep him quiet.

 

She needed Severus to speak to her and the hovering presence of the Aurors would not encourage him. She wanted to dismiss them from the room entirely, but knew they would not leave no matter what she said. She would have to trust in their sense of professionalism and propriety, or the very least in Kingsly Shacklebolt's respect for Harry Potter's privacy. What may soon come to light in this room would make a fine piece of gossip for the Daily Prophet or any other rag in the Wizarding world. It would come to light soon enough, it was unavoidable, but better for Harry if he has some time to deal with it on his own first.

 

But only if she could get the stubborn, difficult man before her to speak.

 

“Severus, do you know where you are?”

 

Severus attempted to swallow, provoking a fit of dry coughing. Minerva gave a wordless flick of her wand, pulling a small cup on a side table toward her. A quick _Aguamenti_ filled it to the brim with cold, clear water. He allowed her to lift him slightly and press the cup to his lips without protest.

 

Minerva sighed and sent the cup back to its place as he resettled himself. She watched him patiently, not sure if he would be insulted if she repeated her question. She glanced up at the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully. She knew he would listen to every word.

 

“Not Azkaban, then.”

 

Minerva caught herself before she gasped. His once rich, deep voice was a sandpaper whisper.

 

“No, it is not. I'm afraid you've been rumbled, as it were. Not quite the loyal Death Eater you'd fooled us all into believing. I do have to commend your fine acting skills, I suppose. Perhaps when this is all over, you can pursue a career in theatre.”

 

Minerva noted that Severus studiously avoided looking at her. His dark eyes darted about the room for a moment, glancing at the portraits and the overflowing bookshelves. Eventually his gaze settled at a faraway point somewhere beyond the ceiling. She did not know what was going through his mind but did not doubt that most of it was deeply unpleasant. His penchant for self-loathing would only make this conversation harder, she knew.

 

He also avoided looking at the Aurors.

 

“I do not doubt you will be released sooner or later, Severus. I cannot guess how soon, as the Ministry is a bit of a mess at the moment, but there's enough to be going on with as it is. At least one of the healers at St. Mungo's is looking for a proper antidote.”

 

His eyes closed again and he licked briefly at his dry, chapped lips. A slight twitch started under his left eye.

 

“Severus, I would not disturb your convalescence, but something has come up that cannot wait. I am afraid it is a rather personal and perhaps delicate matter, but I would implore you to be honest.”

 

No response. Minerva huffed and silently prayed for forbearance. More than once she'd wanted to throttle this man, and had an inkling that she would again before she left this room, but in his current condition it would likely kill him.

 

“To put it succinctly, the numerous curses cast at Harry Potter during his confrontation with Voldemort could not kill him but apparently managed to dispel a rather powerful charm.”

 

Minerva stalled, hoping Severus would show some recognition that he heard what she was saying.

 

“Lily Potter placed a charm upon her son, before he was even born. To alter his appearance, Severus. To make him closely resemble James permanently. Almost too thoroughly, really. Are you familiar with such things? It is not Dark, exactly, but it is a charm that is rarely discussed in polite company.”

 

The man laying before her did not move save for a slight curling of his fingers, gripping at the bedsheets. Minerva paused for a moment, wondering if this was not, perhaps, the wisest idea, but she'd already put her foot in it. Well, in for a penny...

 

“Harry's eyes are Lily's still, but his face is now rather unmistakably _yours_ , Severus. Somewhat more refined, granted, after all he is Lily's as well, but—“

 

Severus's eyes opened again and he glared at her, the sort of warning look he used to send first years fleeing for their lives and sometimes a change of pants.

 

Minerva stood and leaned over him, somewhat guiltily grateful that he did not currently have the strength to come at her physically, or have a wand within reach. She had the feeling of standing on some sort of precipice, regardless. For all his desperate courage and fortitude, he seemed oddly small and fragile to her at this moment. She almost considered dropping the conversation and leaving him to his secrets, to his pain, to his guilt. But she also had to consider Harry and the pain and confusion he was feeling as well.

 

“Severus, this matter cannot simply lie as it is. Even if you hold your tongue, others will eventually guess. The boy walked willingly to his own presumed death last night, but he will not even allow himself to consider this. But others have no such inhibitions. Miss Granger, for example, who I think already has an inkling, although she is too kind to tell him outright.”

 

Severus rolled over slowly, turning his back to her, despite the pain that flared from his wounds at being shifted. Minerva cringed slightly, praying that he did not re-open them yet again. Poppy Pomfrey would not be at all pleased with her.

 

“Severus, I must know. Is there _any_ possibility, _how ever_ remote, that Harry Potter is _your son_?”

 

A choked, pained sound.

 

She saw him in her mind's eye just then, stepping into the entrance hall of Hogwarts that first time. A thin, shabby looking child with long ragged black hair obscuring much of his face, walking nearly on the heels of a vibrant young red-haired girl with brilliant green eyes, holding close to her in the crush of first years being led away from the returning students for their Sorting.

 

The contents of the pensieve, also, crowded around her. Part of her wished she had never looked at them. It had been easier, so much easier, to simply hate him.

 

But now, she almost pitied him. She could not afford to indulge the feeling, not, at least, until he answered her. She grasped the man's bony shoulder, careful to avoid the bandages but pulling him firmly back toward her. He could not resist her, but kept his face turned away until she released him only to reach again and gently pull his chin toward her as well.

 

He shut his eyes firmly, his lips parted in a slight grimace. He was shaking and sweating in earnest now and strands of his black hair clung along his face.

 

Pitiful, indeed.

 

Minerva gave into temptation briefly and brushed the damp, oily hair away from his eyes. He flinched as though stung.

 

She looked again at the portraits above them. The portrait of Albus was awake and peering down at them intently, but did not speak. She might have hexed the canvas if he had dared. The two Aurors as well were eyeing them surreptitiously. They might as well have been errant flies or pigeons, for all Minerva cared right now.

 

“Severus, I can't leave until you say something. Please do not lie to me, this is too important. For the both of you.”

 

The man breathed heavily for nearly a minute, unable or unwilling to reply just yet. Minerva refilled the cup with water, wishing she could give him something rather stronger, but did not dare with the charms and potions currently holding his ravaged body together like flimsy spellotape. Her hand was gentle but firm underneath his head but she did not give him much choice but to drink it. He choked momentarily at the first sip, but drank the rest.

 

She had to lean close to him, then, to hear his answer, but he finally spoke.

 

“It is... possible, perhaps...”

 

She should leave it at that, she knew. But something worried at the edge of her mind. He would not like her next question, but Lily Evans had been her student, as well, after all.

 

“Was Lily...”

 

She mentally batted her hesitation away like an annoying insect. If she didn't ask, she knew Harry would assume... Better for her to get the answer now than for him to attempt to get it later.

 

“Severus, was she willing, or...?”

 

He made a sound that might have been bitter laughter but came out as rasping breath.

 

“She came to me, Minerva. _She_ came to _me._ ”

 

More laughter this time, harsh and cracked. He coughed violently, until a single, tiny crimson drop landed on the white sheet covering him.

 

“They'd quarreled. Over what... I do not know. She did not say.”

 

Minerva sat silently, half hoping he would say no more, but the djinni was out of its bottle now.

 

“Her parents... they did not live far away. I was walking along the river. She... found me. I hadn't spoken to her in years, but...

 

“I told her, go away. I told her... She followed me anyhow. We sat for hours. She said almost nothing. I told her, go home, go back to her parents, her blasted friends, but... but she _stayed_ , Minerva. It was late, I left her on the sofa, went to bed, thought she'd tire and leave on her own. Couldn't bring myself to force her away...

 

“Later... before dawn. She came to me.”

 

Harsh, almost wheezing laughter. He stopped before he made himself ill again. Minerva stared. More of the portraits were awake now, watching silently. The Aurors had turned away slightly from them, shifting uneasily where they stood. Minerva passed a hand over her tired eyes, feeling voyeuristic.

 

Severus continued.

 

“I thought I was dreaming, did not even realize until it was too late to— She would never. She would _never_. In what world could she ever want? Would _anyone_ ever...?”

 

He coughed again but regained control after a moment.

 

“I woke alone... thought perhaps I had dreamed all of it.”

 

He slowly rolled to his side again, unable to face her any longer.

 

Minerva stood and collected herself, turning to leave. His soft, rough voice followed her.

 

“It can't be true... it was hardly even real.”

 

Minerva shook her head sadly. Oh, it had been real enough, she thought to herself, whatever his disbelief. She could not imagine what strange thoughts and motivations had been going through Lily's head that night, but the proof of it was currently wandering about the halls of the school.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

TUESDAY, 3 MAY

 

Minerva sat at the staff table the next morning lingering over her tea and looking out over the remaining students eating their breakfast. Many had left, their parents coming to pick them up the previous day.

 

The last month of classes had been canceled and O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s postponed. The fifth and seventh years would be allowed to return next week to complete their studying before sitting exams, but the rest?

 

This was becoming something of a recurrence at Hogwarts of late. She knew the students didn't mind skipping their end-of-term exams but as a teacher, she felt they were being let down in their education. She dearly hoped with the war over and Voldemort lying dead and cold under a stasis charm down the hallway, that it would be the last year to end like this.

 

Harry was seated between his friends halfway down the Ravenclaw table. She noticed them holding closely to him now. They were worried for him, she knew. She wondered how much they truly guessed. Granger certainly had come to the truth in her own mind by now, it rarely took her long to connect up all the little details.

 

He needed to be told. They could not avoid it forever. She quailed at the thought of his likely reaction, her Gryffindor courage failing her in this matter. She knew Severus would probably be even worse, once he regained his strength and was no longer doped to the gills with pain-relieving potions and calming draughts and could feel properly shocked. She half hoped he would not remember their conversation last night, but did not wish to repeat it, either.

 

The morning's headlines did nothing to improve her mood either. “ _Harry Potter, Hero Missing in Action?_ ” had been splashed across the front page of the Daily Prophet immediately below the main feature on the battle and Voldemort's death.

 

 _Harry Potter, Slayer of Voldemort, last sighted on the grounds of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry immediately following the battle in which the young hero dispatched the dark wizard Voldemort, has not been seen since Monday morning_, the article went, _Speculation that he has left the country would not be confirmed by the Ministry of Magic. “As far as we know, he is still a guest at Hogwarts,” stated Kingsly Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic (Interim),_ _“If he does not wish to speak to the press at this juncture, that is his own business.”_

 

The article descended into more wild speculation and rumor after that point. McGonagall couldn't be bothered to read the rest. It was more of the usual drivel that Skeeter woman churned out.

 

His own business indeed, thought McGonagall. Her respect for Shacklebolt went up a notch. If he was disinclined to the sort of obsequious politicking of his recent predecessors, all the better. If she ever got her hands on Rita Skeeter, however. That jackal of a woman was no doubt working on a completely rubbish biography of Harry right that moment, to pair up with the insulting one she'd spat out for Albus the previous summer.

 

-

 

Harry sat between his friends over breakfast on the morning of the day following the death of Voldemort. The sensation of unreality surrounding him only deepened, however. Part of him expected someone to tell him it was all an illusion or dream. He tried not to look too closely at his hands as he ate and to ignore the way he now had to keep pushing back his fringe to keep it out of his eyes.

 

More students had left following the celebration in Hogsmeade, leaving with family who had joined them for the fireworks. A few still lingered, those who could not yet return home for some reason or another, or who stayed behind to study for O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s.

 

Luna was gone and Harry thought that perhaps Xenophilius Lovegood must have been released from Azkaban already and come to collect her in Hogsmeade during the celebration, or else she'd left on her own. He's been annoyed with her before, but now wished her calm presence were still around.

 

 _What am_ _I_ _still doing here?_ he thought to himself. Where else did he have to go, though? Even if his aunt and uncle hadn't left Privet Drive, he had neither need nor any desire to return to that house he'd spent ten miserable years and more miserable summers in. Technically he still owned 12 Grimmauld Place, but the thought of returning there repulsed him. Perhaps Ron's parents would allow him to stay on with them for a while, or maybe Hermione's, once she retrieved them from Australia.

 

Unable to stand his own thoughts any longer, he stood up from the bench.

 

“Why don't we go see how Hagrid's getting along with rebuilding?”

 

He turned toward the doors without waiting to see if they were following him, but they caught up to him by the time he left the castle. He hesitated about halfway down the lawn, however. He had not spoken to Hagrid since his appearance had changed. What would he think?

 

“Harry? Are you alright? I'm sure Hagrid won't mind us dropping in.”

 

Harry looked at Hermione and just shook his head. “It's nothing. I just... I guess we can just explain that something funny happened during the battle. I guess he'll believe that I'm, er.. me, if I show him...”

 

Harry rubbed at his scar and realized it had not hurt him since Voldemort's death. Not so much as the slightest twinge or tingle, even when he'd stood right outside the door of the room holding his remains. It was strange to him, so long it had been since he'd had the luxury of simply forgetting about it.

 

Hagrid had, indeed, made admirable progress with his home. It looked completed, at least from the outside. Harry knocked on the door and heard heavy footsteps crossing the floor.

 

“Just a minute!”

 

The new, still unpainted door swung open on old, mismatched brass hinges. Hagrid looked down at the trio.

 

“Well hallo, Ron, Hermione... er...”

 

Hagrid peered down at Harry, his broad smile faltering slightly. Harry sighed and shoved his fringe back to reveal his lightning-bolt scar. Hagrid blinked in surprise.

 

“Well, now. A charm, I guess? Trying to avoid the reporters that have been buzzing around, eh, Harry? Odd look to choose, though, yeh almost look like a young Professor S—“

 

Hermione chose that moment to barrel past them all, shoving her way under Hagrid's arm propped on the doorframe, interrupting him.

 

“It's getting a bit hot out, isn't it? Let's all just come inside out of the sun.”

 

Hagrid stepped back, allowing Ron and Harry to follow her.

 

“Er, I suppose it might be? Fine day if I say so meself, though.”

 

The structure of the hut itself was finished but it was still largely unfurnished. A large, moth-eaten looking rug was thrown across the floor in front of a small hearth built of freshly cut stone. Probably dragged out of some storage room in the castle, Harry thought, along with the large, rough-hewn bench standing in the center of the room that looked similar to the ones in some of the classrooms.

 

Gone was the old table where in years past the three of them had risked chipped teeth and more on Hagrid's rock cakes and stoat sandwiches. Fang was sleeping peacefully on a pile of rags in another corner, his front paws still bandaged. Harry thought he was starting to look rather gray about the muzzle.

 

Hagrid sat down on an upturned crate and left the bench to his visitors.

 

“I'm afraid I haven't got anythin' to share at the moment, been a bit busy wi' other things. I could make some tea, I s'pose. Err...”

 

Harry glanced at the empty hearth across the room, wondering now why he'd come down here. He really had wanted to see Hagrid, but now he was unsure why or what to say. Hermione and Ron looked at him where he sat between them, yet again.

 

“Um, Hagrid... I'm, uh. It's not really a disguise.”

 

“Er, your face, you mean? Then what... Um, does seem a bit odd, I mean—“

 

“Something happened, after the battle. The curse he used on me. Voldemort, I mean.”

 

Harry noticed that Hagrid no longer flinched at the name. It somehow gave him the courage he needed to continue.

 

“Um, it disrupted something. A charm, I think. Hermione found a book in the library and, uh, Professor Flitwick did something to check.”

 

Harry finally looked up at Hagrid, who had a gentle, if puzzled, expression.

 

“They, er, think my mother did something to make me look more like my dad. I don't know why. It's gone now though, I guess. This is just... what I look like... apparently.”

 

Hermione's hand had come to cover his own sometime during his sudden confession. He realized that he'd started shaking at some point and struggled to breath evenly. Hagrid was looking at him with an odd expression that Harry didn't think he'd ever seen on his friend's face before.

 

Maybe Hagrid didn't believe him. He still didn't want to believe what had happened himself. He wasn't sure why he was saying all of this, now, but somehow he just couldn't stand the thought of lying to Hagrid, even by omission, no matter how easy it was to lie to himself.

 

“Oh, er, uh.. alright then, Harry. Don't matter none, really, though, does it? Don't matter what you look like, yer still Harry, aren't yeh?”

 

Hagrid's smile had returned but looked rather forced, Harry thought. He reached over and patted Harry's knee, not quite looking him in the eye any longer.

 

-

 

After a few more minutes of stilted conversation on nothing important, Harry and his friends had excused themselves from Hagrid and began walking back to the castle. There was something else the half-giant knew or suspected, Harry thought, but for once Hagrid had managed to hold his tongue, whatever it was.

 

Ron and Hermione trailed behind him, whispering to one another. Harry couldn't make out what they were saying, but decided he didn't care. He did not like it when they argued, but knew better than to try to intervene anymore.

 

After arriving at the castle, Hermione left them to return to the library, saying she wanted to do some more research on the charm Harry had been under. He didn't see the point, really – Flitwick had already confirmed her original conclusion which meant that his mother had, indeed, sought to conceal something about him before he was even born. The implications of it made him feel slightly nauseous and he didn't want to think about it. Maybe she thought there was some way to put the charm back.

 

There was something else entirely that he felt the need to pursue at the moment.

 

“Ron, why don't you go with Hermione. I need to go find Professor McGonagall about something.”

 

“Are you sure? I can come with you, I don't mind.”

 

Harry shook his head and tried for a casual smile. “No, go keep her company. I'll be fine.”

 

Ron looked unconvinced. “Well, you know where to find us, then. I mean, about this charm business, Hagrid is right, it doesn't really matter. It's all water under the bridge at this point, right?”

 

Harry's “casual smile” failed entirely at that. “I'm not talking about that. I need to know what they're planning on doing with Voldemort.”

 

Ron turned slightly green. “That's, er, a bit disgusting, really, but if it's that important to you...”

 

Harry shrugged and parted ways with his friends.

 

-

 

The Auror Proudfoot didn't challenge Minerva this time when she appeared at the door of the Headmaster's office. His partner did not appear to be present. Poppy was already inside, seated in the armchair, her head propped on her hand as she watched her patient. She looked exhausted.

 

How often had she done just this, Minerva wondered. Poppy rarely said anything on the matter, having the sense of privacy and confidentiality appropriate to a healer, but had probably spent more time over the years with Severus Snape than anyone else save perhaps Albus Dumbledore.

 

She had been one of very few healers entrusted with his care, even in the years between Voldemort's first downfall and his return following the Tri-Wizard Tournament, as the Order could not risk the reaction of an unvetted healer to the Dark Mark he bore.

 

How many times had he returned to Hogwarts after a meeting with the other Death Eaters, with Voldemort himself, having suffered under the displeasure or suspicion of his “master” and returned bearing the marks of his testing at Voldemort's hands?

 

Minerva came to stand beside Poppy, startling her briefly.

 

“Oh.. Minerva. I did not hear you come in. He woke up for a little while, earlier, but... Did you need something?”

 

Minerva smiled fondly at the healer. The students were often somewhat terrified of her, as she had a stern and occasionally perfunctory manner, mostly because they so often disobeyed her, to their own detriment. Minerva knew that underneath the bluster, Poppy had always been rather softhearted.

 

“How is he, Poppy?”

 

“Truthfully, Minerva? I do not know. He has not grown worse, but he is no better than yesterday. I can keep giving him blood-replenishing potions and changing the dressings but it is a stop-gap measure at best. He needs a proper antidote. Smethwyk... He's the head healer of St. Mungo's creature-induced injuries ward, you know... He is working on the matter himself now but I have not heard from him since last night.”

 

 _She sounds nearly as tired as she looks_ , Minerva thought.

 

“I can sit with him for a while if you need to return to the students in the Hospital wing. Who is left, by the way?”

 

Poppy Pomfrey stood, joints cracking as she stretched

 

“Terry Boot only, but I imagine he'll be ready to leave this evening, if he has done as I told him to and stayed put in bed. I suppose he'll be staying on to study for his N.E.W.T.s next week but I am not sure.”

 

Poppy looked down at Severus again, smoothing a hand over a pale cheek briefly before turning to leave. He did not stir under her touch.

 

“I suppose I should rest for a while myself. Let me know if he needs anything.”

 

Minerva sat down, considering the man before her again. He was breathing evenly and looked almost peaceful; Poppy must have just dosed him again with a calming draught before she'd arrived. Were it not for the bandages he might merely be sleeping.

 

“What will you say, I wonder, when you finally see him, Severus? You always detested him for his resemblance to James. It's not as though you ever bothered to take the time to really know him. I suppose you'll have to find some other excuse to speak to him horridly.”

 

“He may surprise you, Minerva.”

 

She looked up at the canvas where the portrait of Albus Dumbledore sat.

 

“Finally decided to put in your opinion, have you? I am still quite angry with you, Albus, I will have you know.”

 

“I know that I made mistakes. Many of them, in fact. But I did the best that I could, Minerva, please believe that.”

 

The image of Albus Dumbledore at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed of himself, but Minerva was not quite ready to let everything go, just yet. A few of the other portraits stirred but none of them spoke, although Phineas Nigellus Black looked as though he might.

 

“I truly do not wish to speak to you at the moment, Albus, please forgive me.”

 

The portrait nodded to her but otherwise respected her request, for which she was grateful. The revelations of the last two days were still too close to the surface for her to be reasonable about it all. She really did not care to get into an argument with a portrait standing over her stricken colleague.

 

After all, it was just canvas, paint and some clever charm work. Albus Dumbledore was dead. There was no point in dwelling on her anger and, if she were honest, her disappointment in a wizard she had idolized for much of her life and in later years counted as a dear friend. It was unsettling to find out so many secrets he'd kept from her, when she had believed herself to have his confidence, at least to a degree.

 

Oh, she wasn't a complete fool, she knew he'd held back where necessary, but just _how much_ he'd kept to himself was truly astonishing. He'd had “plots inside of plans inside of schemes” as one of his detractors had once remarked to her, provoking laughter at the time.

 

Now it seems it would be left to her to clean up the messes he left behind, including the veritable wreck that was Severus Snape. She watched him breathe for a while, reassuring herself that he was, indeed, still alive, then left.

 

-

 

This time it did not take ages for Harry to find Professor McGonagall. He found her as she was leaving the Headmaster's office. She looked mildly upset about something, though, and he hesitated, but she saved him the trouble of having to speak first.

 

“Well, is there something you need?”

 

“Er, yes, Professor. I wanted to know... that is... that room off to the side of the Great Hall. I know he's in there.”

 

Whatever the witch had been expecting him to say, apparently that was not it.

 

“Somebody told you then? Hagrid I suppose... I will have to speak to the staff, I thought I had made it clear that it was not to be discussed...”

 

“Er, no, nobody told me. Especially not Hagrid.”

 

She looked at him skeptically.

 

“How on Earth do you know, then?”

 

“I'm... not sure? I just knew, somehow, when I walked past the door yesterday. He _is_ in there, right? Voldemort's, er, remains, I mean.”

 

Professor McGonagall sighed and crossed her arms, making him feel like one of her students again, one who had just given the wrong answer.

 

“Oh fine, Potter, _yes_ , it is being kept there for the moment. I assure you he is really quite dead and you do not need to be concerned. Someone from the Ministry will likely come by to deal with the problem once a final decision is made.”

 

“That's sort of the problem, Professor. I'm not sure I trust the Ministry to, er, deal with the problem.”

 

“I'm not sure what you mean, Potter.”

 

“Professor, I, er... I feel I ought to have some say in the matter, is all. Considering that I _did_ finish him off. Obviously I had help from everyone, but still.”

 

She stood for a moment, apparently thinking over what he'd said.

 

“Well, I suppose I do see your point, but the matter is out of my hands. You will have to take it up with the Ministry. I can't imagine it even matters much, though? Anyone who might mourn that wretched man is either dead or in Azkaban.”

 

Harry glanced at the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office behind her, briefly distracted, but recovered himself.

 

“Er, that's not what I'm concerned about. I don't want there to be some kind of, um, permanent... I don't want there to be, uh...”

 

“Well? Out with it, Potter.”

 

Her impatient outburst seemed to cause his meandering thoughts to gel, finally.

 

“What I mean is that there are still people who might sympathize with some of the things that Voldemort said or did. And someday they might forget just how much he destroyed. I don't want there to be an actual _grave_. Or any kind of monument at all. Not to him. I think they should just burn it and be done with it. That's all.”

 

McGonagall seemed slightly taken aback by his impromptu speech.

 

“Well, then. I suppose I can give your concerns to one of the Aurors to pass to the Minister, but I can't guarantee you they will listen. I expect there are some who might feel a permanent monument would be a very good idea - to serve as a warning.”

 

“If they want something like that, then it should be a monument to his victims and to those who fought him, not anything to do with Voldemort himself.”

 

“Perhaps you are right. But as I said, the decision is not mine.”

 

McGonagall glanced back toward the gargoyle as Harry had done moments ago.

 

“Was there something else you needed? Or wished to discuss?”

 

Harry knew Snape was being held in the Headmaster's office, of course.

 

“Er, is he doing alright? Snape?”

 

“He is much the same today as he was yesterday, I'm afraid. The same healer who developed the original antidote for Mr Weasley is still working on a new one.”

 

Harry considered for a moment whether or not he should ask to go up to see the man, but something in him resisted the impulse. He did not hate him anymore, exactly, not now that he knew who Snape really was, as far as such a thing was possible, but he wasn't sure he had any desire to actually go speak to the man. Possibly ever. He was still a git, after all, even if he had turned out to be a very brave one.

 

Harry nodded at McGonagall's answer and turned to leave when he was stopped by the witch's hand on his shoulder.

 

“Harry...”

 

“Yes, Professor?”

 

She squeezed his shoulder lightly and smiled at him, a bit sadly, apparently changing her mind about whatever it was she'd been about to say, and let him go.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for blood and dubious medical practices in this chapter, just FYI

WEDNESDAY, 4 MAY

 

Harry was awoken the next morning by Ron shaking him.

 

“C'mon Harry, time to get up! Mum and Dad have come back to fetch us all, Ginny's with them too.”

 

It took a moment for Harry to remember where he was and he was getting tired of the sensation already. He looked over at Ron, who had a slightly stricken look.

 

But of course, Ron said his parents had returned to Hogwarts to get him. To get _them_. He didn't have to ask what for.

 

Harry dragged himself out of the same bed he'd slept in the previous two nights. Its owner had still not returned. He wondered what would happen to the trunk and the poster if their owner indeed never came back for them. The house elves would take them away, maybe, over the summer holidays before September. Harry had a terrible thought that they might belong to Colin Creevey but he couldn't recall if the younger boy had come to favor a particular professional Quidditch team.

 

Harry shivered slightly but made himself move as Ron, already dressed, waited impatiently for him to shift. Harry jammed his crooked glasses onto his face and followed his friend down the stairs to the common room. He noticed a few stray students scattered about on the arm chairs and there was, indeed, now a small fire burning brightly in the fireplace.

 

This morning, though, he did not skip the shower, although he made short work of it. He kept his eyes on the tiles in the shower stall, trying not to notice changes in his form that went beyond just his facial features. He mistakenly glanced down as he rinsed his hair, though, and choked slightly. Well, perhaps not _every_ change was a negative...

 

Afterward, a freshening charm on his clothes was a dissatisfying solution but would have to do, as he still had nothing else to change into. Most of his belongings had been left at the Burrow, months ago, and the few essentials he'd carried had been lost somewhere along the way. He had no idea what had happened to his old school trunk after the Weasleys had been obliged to abandon their home and go into hiding. He wondered if they'd returned yet, or if they were still staying at Aunt Muriel's home or Shell Cottage.

 

It suddenly struck Harry that he literally had only his wand and the clothes on his back at the moment, clothes which no longer fit him quite properly. He was no taller or shorter than before, but among everything else, his weight had sort of re-distributed itself. He was much slimmer about the hips than before and had to tighten his belt a couple notches just to keep his trousers up, while his shirt was uncomfortably tight across his shoulders but almost too loose everywhere else now. The sensation was odd, to say the least, like he'd suddenly been poured into someone else's skin. In a way, he had, although whose, precisely, he could not say. He wondered with no slight trepidation how the rest of the Weasley clan would react.

 

Ron appeared at the door and looked at him quizzically, fidgeting as he watched Harry studying his reflection.

 

“Don't worry about it, Harry, I've already warned them you look different now. They won't care, I promise. Come on, we need to get back. Dad's got us all a portkey ready.”

 

Ron waited for Harry to stop fussing with his damp hair in front of the mirror and follow him out into the hallway, where Hermione was waiting for them.

 

“You're absolutely sure you don't want to go fetch your parents back now, Hermione?”

 

“Ron, I've already told you, it's _alright_. It'll be better if I wait til everything settles down and I'm not so, er... distracted. I can undo the memory charms but it will be tricky and I'll have a lot to explain. Better if I have the time... but never mind that right now. Come on, we shouldn't keep everyone waiting all morning.”

 

Ron took the lead this time as they walked back toward the Great Hall. As they stepped through the doors they saw Ginny nibbling at a bit of toast surrounded by a few other students at the end of the Hufflepuff table. The Weasley parents were standing in front of the staff table, however, looking to be in the midst of a serious discussion with Professor McGonagall, who appeared to be the only Hogwarts teacher eating breakfast in the Great Hall that morning. Only Argus Filch sat at the far end, removed from everyone else and slowly feeding tidbits to his cat.

 

Harry, Ron and Hermione headed toward Ginny, but Mr. Weasley caught sight of them, beckoning at Harry to come over. He was greeted with an almost too bright smile on Mrs. Weasley's face. Ron and Hermione joined him, but they were waved off, and sent to go sit with Ginny.

 

Mrs. Weasley immediately pulled Harry into a firm hug, not letting him go for several moments. Harry found himself hugging her back nearly as tightly, feeling strangely relieved at their arrival. Their presence anchored something within him that he had not been aware had been adrift.

 

“Harry, dear, I hope you are holding up here. I trust they've been looking after you?”

 

She quickly glanced back at McGonagall with a latent, unspoken accusation. The older witch merely quirked any eyebrow but did not respond. Mrs. Weasley stood back and looked him up and down. He did not feel like something pinned to a board this time, though.

 

“They certainly haven't been overfeeding you.”

 

She sighed and stepped back, content, apparently, to let McGonagall say whatever it was she needed to.

 

“Harry, you and I still have a few things to discuss, when you have time. I know you were not pleased with me the day before yesterday but I've discovered a bit more about your... situation. It can wait, but not forever. I realize there are things which need to be done, of course. I merely request that you contact me when you have the time. Please, for your own sake do not put this off for too long.”

 

Harry bit back the sharp retort that immediately sprang to his tongue, aware of the Weasley parents standing nearby as well as a vague notion that some bridges maybe ought not be torched in a fit of pique. Harry surprised himself somewhat; a few years ago he would not have been able to hold his tongue. _I guess that means I'm growing up or something_ , he thought, but wasn't sure how he felt about it. He'd felt ancient in the moments after Voldemort's fall, but now on the other side of it, there was a strange sense of unreality, some terrible nightmare he might've just woken from, and after all, seventeen is not all that different from sixteen.

 

Or perhaps the nightmare had just changed into a different one. Despite Luna's assurances a couple days ago, he did not, in fact, feel much better about what Professor McGonagall had said to him in that spare classroom after she'd dismissed Professor Flitwick and his friends.

 

He glanced at Mr and Mrs. Weasley, who stood watching him patiently but offered no advice. Harry wondered what McGonagall had said to them before he'd arrived, but part of him almost preferred not to know. What did they think, he wondered.

 

Harry settled for simply nodding at McGonagall, acknowledging her request but not making any actual promises. She looked at him for a moment but that seemed to be the end of the conversation. He turned back toward his friends at the Hufflepuff table and Mrs. Weasley wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

 

“Well, Harry, if you'd like to grab a bite to eat, I think we can spare a bit of time. Charlie, Bill and Fleur have been busy for the last couple of days going over the Burrow and making sure it is safe again. It will be nice to be able to go home, finally.”

 

Harry's mood lightened just a little at that thought. The Burrow was still standing. His friends had a home to return to, at least. They were putting on a brave face, he knew. Fred was gone.

 

Harry sat down next to Ron at the end of the row of students. Ginny leaned forward and looked at him across her brother's plate. Harry shrugged at her and she lifted an eyebrow. She gave him a small smile before her brother leaned over in front of her to grab a saltshaker, ending the moment. Well, at least nothing dampened Ron's appetite.

 

Harry's appetite, however... He pulled a couple slices of buttered toast onto his plate and added a bit of jam. After Mrs. Weasley's comment earlier about them not overfeeding him, he knew she'd be unimpressed if skipped breakfast entirely. He felt an odd need to not disappoint her. Not today.

 

Hermione leaned back and glanced at him past Ginny and Ron. Harry had the weird sensation that he was being checked up on by everyone. Normally it would bother him, making him feel like he was being babied, but at the moment he felt sort of warm all over at the thought.

 

Maybe it was okay to be babied every once in a while, even if you didn't really _need_ it, just to remind you that someone cared enough to do so, and were still around _to_ care.

 

-

 

Professor McGonagall watched as the Weasleys, along with Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, finished up and took their leave, walking out of the castle to take the portkey that Arthur had brought to carry them all back to their home.

 

She should have said something to Harry much earlier, but had hesitated and now the matter was, for the moment, out of her hands. She'd explained, at least in brief terms, to Arthur and Molly what had transpired to cause such a dramatic change in Harry Potter's appearance. Including Severus Snape's startling confession. She had known they would have questions about his appearance the moment they saw him and felt there was no point in trying to avoid the matter. They were, in fact, the closest thing that Harry had ever had to actual parents since he was a year old.

 

The arrival of Harry himself had ended their tense conversation before she could ask whether or not they'd be willing, eventually, to talk to him about it, but she hoped they would, as Harry might be more accepting of the truth coming from people he trusted more fully.

 

It felt oddly freeing to get it all off of her chest, but she felt she still had an obligation to speak to Harry himself. Sooner or later he'd have to face the truth. But if the Weasleys could soften the blow somewhat for Harry, she could take up the task of dealing with Severus. She felt that she'd gotten the harder end of the bargain, but probably deserved as much.

 

The few students remaining dispersed as they finished their breakfast and the Great Hall was nearly empty by the time she abandoned her cooling tea and rose to face the day. Several of the school's instructors had been called to the Ministry that morning to give statements on the events of the last year leading up to the Battle of Hogwarts, as it was now being called. She'd been questioned herself, already.

 

She dreaded the coming hearing that Severus would have to endure, as soon as he was recovered enough to stand for it. The charges against Severus for the murder of Albus Dumbledore had never been officially dropped. The Death Eater takeover of the Ministry had resulted in the matter being pushed aside and temporarily buried, but now that Kingsly Shacklebolt had restored some manner of order, he apparently wished the matter to be resolved through the standard procedure as swiftly as possible.

 

Albus Dumbledore had brought all his cunning and influence to bear the first time Severus's loyalty had been in question; she had no such weight herself. The memories he had given to Potter with what he had no doubt believed to be his dying breaths would have to speak for him. They'd been enough to convince the Aurors to at least let him convalesce under guard at Hogwarts, rather than moving him directly to the prison hospital at Azkaban, which gave Minerva hope.

 

Minerva made her way toward the Headmaster's office, intending to check in on him for a moment, although she held no particular hope that his condition had changed. With no classes for the rest of the week and only O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students returning after, there wasn't actually very much for her to do at the moment.

 

The gargoyle leapt aside at her approach. A new password would need to be set soon, she thought, as the last one had been broken when Severus had fled the castle during their confrontation.

 

She felt a pang of something at the memory of their duel that night. He'd made a grand show of it but in truth had done little but defend himself against all of her and Filius's attacks, doing nothing in return which could have genuinely harmed either of them. She knew in reality he was easily a match for her in combat, if not more. She'd called him a coward.

 

She heard muffled speech as the staircase rose to the office door, recognizing Poppy Pomfrey's voice as she responded to a man's that she did not. Entering, finally, she was greeted by a wizard in robes she recognized from St. Mungo's. The Auror Savage nodded at her from his usual perch near the window overlooking the Quidditch pitch.

 

“Good news, Minerva. Smethwyck and his healers at St. Mungo's think they've finally got something for poor Severus now.”

 

The man from St. Mungos must be Hippocrates Smethwyck, then. Minerva had not met the man before, but knew he'd been the one to develop the first antidote for Arthur Weasley.

 

“I'm glad to hear it. How soon can you have it here?”

 

The man pulled a small phial from a pocket and held it out. The contents looked somewhat foreboding, a viscous, brown liquid like crude oil oozing inside the glass as the healer tilted it slightly to one side.

 

“It is not precisely an antidote, I'm afraid. At least not in the ordinary sense. I had to find a more... active approach. It does contain the antidote we used in the Weasley case, along with some other components, but it has been altered specifically to seek out and bind up the venom itself, as simply neutralizing it does not seem possible. It will then have to be physically removed from the patient.”

 

“Removed? How, exactly?”

 

“With what amounts to a modified summoning charm, essentially.”

 

“A summoning charm. Really? How, exactly is _that_ meant to work?”

 

Minerva looked over at the sleeping form of Severus Snape, not sure at all that the “cure” the healer had brought was much better than the disease. Smethwyk apparently noted her alarm, stashing the phial back into his pocket for the moment.

 

“I'm afraid it is indeed likely to be painful, but he cannot be left in his current state much longer and any additional potions or spells that might lessen the ordeal are likely to interfere with the process and I do not wish to try it repeatedly. He cannot begin heal while the venom is still present in his wounds. It carries a curse as well as natural toxins. There may already be permanent damage as it is; this new version of the snake's venom has a neurotoxic component that had not been present before. I admit I would prefer to do this at St. Mungo's but the Ministry has informed me that I am not to permitted to remove the patient from this room.”

 

“Oh did they? I will have to have words with Shacklebolt.”

 

Smethwyk shook his head slightly.

 

“That is your own business, of course, but this needs to be done as soon as possible. Poppy is prepared to assist me and if you would like to stay, I have no objections. Indeed, we may need another pair of hands.”

 

Minerva sighed and dragged the armchair back several feet from Severus's bed, leaving the healers room to work around him while she sat and resigned herself.

 

Without further comment, Smethwyck took the phial out again, uncorking it and upending it over a cup of water. The contents slid out slowly but surely, falling into the water with a small “plop” and dissolving immediately.

 

Meanwhile, Poppy had gently roused Severus, as much as it was possible at least, and lifted him to sit up. She had seated herself on the bed behind him, holding him loosely in her arms with his head falling limply back onto her shoulder, the coverlet slipping down to his waist to reveal a pale torso criss-crossed with numerous scars where it was not covered still with bandages.

 

Smethwyck placed one supporting hand at his patient's neck while the other held the cup to his lips until Severus finally swallowed the dubious contents to the last drop.

 

Severus began to shiver, subtly at first but with growing intensity. Poppy re-adjusted her grip on him to hold him more firmly. Smethwyck pulled his wand from his sleeve and cut through the bandages with a spell, tossing them to the floor.

 

Minerva swallowed a gasp as the raw, ragged wounds were exposed. The St. Mungo's healer probed at the discolored edges with a finger and watching for some sort of change. Fresh blood began to trickle in thin rivulets across Severus's body.

 

The shivering stopped then, only to be replaced by an intermittent full-body spasm as his eyes rolled back in his head. Poppy nearly lost hold of him twice before it subsided.

 

Minerva gripped the armrests of the chair, willing herself to remain seated and not interfere. Smethwyck did not seem unduly alarmed by what was happening, standing calmly while waiting for his “antidote” to have whatever effect he was expecting.

 

Finally Severus lay still and limp in Poppy's arms, although the oozing blood had increased to a steadier flow. Neither healer paid the slightest mind to the growing puddle of blood now dripping from the bed to pool on the stone floor below.

 

Smethwyck stood watching Severus for another moment, then pushed against his wounds again, pressing at them through the slickness of warm blood. He brought a crimson fingertip up, looking at it intently for a moment, then, to Minerva's horror, briefly tasting of it.

 

“I think we're ready for the second part, Poppy. Do keep a good grip on him, I can't risk an _Immobulus_ or anything else of the sort, I'm afraid, might stop things from moving along correctly...”

 

He suddenly turned to where Minerva was seated, regarding her as if he'd forgotten she was there.

 

“If you don't mind, she may require some help to hold him still.”

 

Minerva nodded dumbly, rising from her seat. She noticed that most of the portraits along the wall were staring down at them now with rapt attention, a particularly intent gleam in the eye of image of Albus. Proudfoot was seated in the window across the room watching the proceedings while looking slightly green. How an Auror could afford to be squeamish...

 

Minerva pushed the thought of their audience from her mind and moved around the bed, standing nearby, but unsure of what to do, precisely.

 

“Stand to the side there and take hold of his legs, if you will. Do try not to get kicked, although I doubt he has the strength at this moment...”

 

Minerva did as she was told, leaning forward to take hold of his shins just below his knees through the blanket, bearing down with her weight. He did not move under her grasp, or even seem to notice. Poppy had also readjusted her grip, now wrapping him in a sort of bear-hug, pinning his arms to his sides as well as she could considering his much greater stature.

 

Smethwick nodded at the two witches and lifted his wand, beginning a long incantation that bore absolutely no resemblance whatever to the familiar _Accio_. The words were not Latin, but sounded vaguely Celtic, repeating as he moved the tip of his wand over several points of Severus's body.

 

Minerva nearly lost her grasp when Severus had another spasm, suddenly. Poppy struggled against his flailing as well. Minerva bit back a cry as she saw something dark begin moving underneath his skin.

 

The dark points became threads, winding their way up his arms and appearing from beneath the coverlet still concealing his lower half, gathering together into thicker ropes as they rose, at least where they could be seen underneath the blood now flowing freely, painting Poppy's hands a vivid red where they held onto him. The bound venom began to coalesce at a point over his solar plexus, where the tip of Smethwyck's wand hovered.

 

Severus's eyes suddenly snapped open as he let out a piercing shriek that Minerva would not have thought any human being capable of. He struggled against the two witches' grasp upon him with a strength that he should not currently possess. Minerva threw herself down bodily across his legs, pinning them under herself while she craned her head to the side to watch the healer's terrifying progress.

 

The burst of energy halted and the scream tapered off to a soft keening as a thick, green-brown semi-clotted mass suddenly ripped free from his skin, rising like some sort of amorphous deep-sea creature into the air at the direction of Smethwyck's wand.

 

The healer summoned an empty bottle from his bag, dropping his specimen into it and sealing it without comment. Another flick of his wand summoned his entire satchel from the floor near the fireplace. He stooped and rummaged inside, pulling out what Minerva recognized as a very ordinary blood-replenishing potion. He tipped the entire volume down Severus's throat, then a second, then a third.

 

Smethwyck looked at the two women, both pale and shaking slightly themselves now. Minerva had never considered herself easily rattled by a bit of blood, but felt somewhat mollified that Poppy had been shaken up as well, experienced healer that she was.

 

“You can release him now. The worst of it is over, I believe.”

 

Minerva stood slowly, releasing her iron grip on the man's legs and making her way somewhat haphazardly back to the armchair, flopping down into it in an uncharacteristically undignified manner, leaning her head back against the cushioning.

 

Poppy hesitated longer, reticent to let go of her grip on Severus, as though he might disappear should she let go. Finally, she slowly unwound herself, setting him gently down and arranging his unresisting limbs on the bloodied bed before pulling the dislodged cover back up over his legs and hips. Minerva blushed slightly at the younger man's total state of undress now, not having noticed before in her preoccupation with simply holding on for dear life. She pushed her embarrassment aside, feeling somewhat childish.

 

After a few moments, Poppy pulled out her wand and vanished most of Severus's spilled blood with repeated incantations of _Evanesco_. He was still bleeding, somewhat, but the flow had slowed to a mere oozing trickle.

 

She leaned over him, watching him closely while Smethwyck turned and busied himself packing away his potion bottles and making notes in a small, leather-bound book. Finally he picked up the glass jar he'd placed on the floor, holding it up to the sunlight streaming in from the window and turning it about, watching the vile liquid inside slide around in the glass.

 

“Hm, you know, I might get a decent paper out of this.”

 

Minerva shot him a withering look. How could he stand there and act like nothing terribly much had happened? Poppy, at least, paid him no mind as she stood over Severus, a hand laying gently on his stomach just below his ribcage, perhaps to feel his breathing, while the other was smoothing back the sweat-soaked hair plastered against his forehead. He appeared to be unconscious again, thank Merlin.

 

Smethwyck stashed the jar into his satchel along with everything else and picked it up, hoisting it over his shoulder.

 

“Keep up the blood-replenishing potions for a few days, I should think. You shouldn't have any further trouble closing his wounds in an ordinary fashion, at any rate. Otherwise he should be on the mend nicely. Do get in touch if he takes a bad turn.”

 

With that, the healer turned on his heel and walked to the Headmaster's fireplace, tossing in a handful of floo powder and disappearing with a shout of “St. Mungo's Hospital” and a flash of green.

 

“Well, Poppy, I can't say I think much of your friend's bedside manner.”

 

Poppy was still standing over Severus, her left hand still lightly against his diaphragm, the other now moving her wand over his wounds, repeating a soft, vaguely musical incantation. Minerva recognized it as _Vulnera Sanentur_ , a powerful and beautiful healing spell that, ironically, was one of Severus's own creations.

 

Minerva wondered, then, just how many spells this man had created before he'd even left Hogwarts as a student. She knew of at least one other, much less benevolent in purpose. It was a mystery, in a way, how such powerful destruction and such powerful healing could spring from the very same mind. _Should I live longer than Nicholas Flamel, Severus, I do not think I could even_ begin _to understand you_ , she thought.

 

Poppy pulled a jar of some sort of salve from a pocket and rubbed the ointment it contained over the now closed wounds, her fingers moving over the still-vivid marks in slow, firm circles. Tincture of dittany, Minerva supposed, although it seemed a lost cause to think he'd be spared extensive scarring. _More_ extensive scarring, she mentally corrected herself, her eyes trailing again over the numerous older marks already there. Finally satisfied with her work, Poppy stood back and took hold of the edge of the coverlet to pull it all the way up to Severus's chin, shaking her head slightly.

 

“I don't know that I'd call Smethwyck a friend, exactly. He's very good at what he does.”

 

Poppy watched Severus for another minute, then turned away.

 

“I have a few things to attend to, do you mind staying for a while, Minerva? He will sleep for a few hours, I think. I don't expect any further trouble, but if his wounds should re-open I need to know immediately.”

 

Minerva nodded, settling herself in the armchair for what she expected to be a long wait, wishing she'd thought to bring along a novel.

 


	7. Chapter 7

The portkey dropped them in front of the garden gate at the Burrow. Harry managed not to land in a heap on the ground, but just barely. He would always hate portkey travel, probably.

 

Harry stood until the world stopped tilting on him, then followed the rest inside. It was almost an anticlimax when he stepped through the door to be greeted with the familiar sight of the Burrow, hardly changed from how it had ever looked. Never would he guess, just by looking at the familiar worn furniture, that the place had been invaded by Death Eaters the previous summer.

 

Ginny seated herself on the sofa in the living room next to her father while Ron immediately went upstairs, followed by Hermione. Harry followed Mrs. Weasley into the kitchen instead, where Bill was already seated at the table, reading a magazine that appeared to be written in Arabic. He couldn't tell whether it was magic or Muggle, as there were no images on the cover, only a flowing calligraphic script. Harry took a seat on the opposite end. Bill glanced up over his periodical, or whatever it was, then set it down on the table to look over at him. Harry did not meet his gaze but could feel him staring.

 

Mrs. Weasley finally stepped over and saved him from having to explain.

 

“Oh, that's just Harry Potter, dear, I'll explain later. Is Charlie back yet?”

 

Bill's eyes narrowed at Harry for just a moment but finally he picked his magazine back up.

 

“He's outside somewhere, I think. You know he doesn't like being cooped up. Fleur went out to do some shopping but said she'd return by supper time.”

 

Mrs. Weasley went back to bustling about, opening and closing cupboards and drawers, perhaps checking to see what was still there. Bill kept glancing at Harry from time to time while keeping up the appearance of being absorbed in his magazine. Harry finally grew tired of being studied and slid off his seat, leaving the kitchen and slipping out the back door.

 

Outside, Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and stood just outside the door, now unsure of why he had come out at all. He hated feeling the way he did now. He felt uncomfortable and miserable and ungrateful, but didn't know how to stop. Everything had changed overnight, literally. Voldemort is dead. _Voldemort is dead._ Why couldn't he just be relieved, at least, if not happy?

 

He just felt, somehow, that the price had been far too high. That maybe, he could have done more. But how could he have? He thought about the first time he'd seen Fred and George, teasing Ron and their mother outside Platform 9 ¾ that day, so many years ago. He had no idea where Remus and Tonks had been taken after the battle. He vaguely remembered McGonagall saying she'd try to find out, but had never gotten an answer.

 

He had a godson now. Would they have even asked him, if they'd known he wasn't really James Potter's son? 

 

Harry wandered aimlessly about the garden. He did not see Charlie, but wasn't really looking for him anyhow. He was in no mood to explain himself and was growing tired of feeling like a stranger in his own life. Harry propped himself against the old broom shed to watch the frogs hopping in and out of the pond.

 

After a while, Harry heard someone coming through the grass and weeds and looked up to see Mrs. Weasley. He felt another pang of guilt that she'd had to come after him. Her son's funeral was tomorrow and here he was, busy brooding over his own problems. He ran a hand through his hair, scratching at his scalp. It felt like it needed washing, he thought. Maybe Ron would let him use some of his shampoo in the morning.

 

“Sorry Mrs. Weasley, just wanted a bit of fresh air.”

 

She waved off his excuses.

 

“Don't mention it, dear. I did want to talk to you in private, actually. Not an easy thing to do inside the house, really...”

 

Mrs. Weasley seated herself on a low portion of the crumbling stone wall surrounding the garden. She patted another stone next to her in invitation. Harry hesitated a moment, then sat beside her, his eyes still following the movements of the pond frogs.

 

“Harry, you know Arthur and I consider you part of this family, right?”

 

Harry nodded, drawing in a deep breath through his nose.

 

“I know things have been very tough lately, I just wanted to remind you of that. You are always welcome here, no matter what. _No matter what_.”

 

Harry looked up at her kind face, somewhat troubled by the emphasis of her repeated statement. She smiled at him, putting an arm over his shoulder.

 

“Harry, this business with the failed charm... I did not know your mother, but I certainly know what it's like to _be_ a mother. You must trust that she only ever did what she thought was best for you.”

 

A frog leapt from a stone into the pond, splashing loudly.

 

“I... I think I know that, Mrs. Weasley. I just don't really understand _why_.”

 

“I don't know that I'm the right person to answer that question, Harry. I do know your parents loved you, both of them.”

 

Harry felt a tightness in his chest, as though something heavy were bearing down on him.

 

“Professor McGonagall told me earlier that I needed to consider that I, er, that I might not be...”

 

Harry leaned back slightly and rubbed at his eyes as though they pained him. Mrs. Weasley did not let go of him.

 

“She said I might not actually be James Potter's son.”

 

Mrs. Weasley did not respond immediately, but hugged him tighter against her side. He felt ridiculous to be going on about something that was, at this point, ancient history, when so much had happened in the last few days. In the grand scheme of things, it was just a detail, he supposed.

 

It had been well over a year now since he'd last indulged in any kind of fantasy about having had a different sort of childhood, a different life, about anything other than the here and now. He'd had to push it all aside to get through the job that had been placed before him.

 

He'd truly thought that he was well past this sort of thing. A pity his heart did not now seem inclined to listen to his rational mind. Some things could be deferred, he supposed, but not forgotten entirely, and now that the urgency of destroying Voldemort was past, it seemed it was too easy for his mind to wander.

 

“Harry dear, I want you to listen to me closely. You _are_ James Potter's son, regardless of blood. He loved you enough to protect you with his life. Do try and remember that. We can talk about this later, perhaps. There are a few things I need to tend to today, but don't think for a minute that I could forget about you.”

 

She gave him one last pat and stood up, retreating back to the house.

 

If Harry had felt vaguely guilty before, the sensation returned tenfold, like a vice around his chest, nearly stealing his breath away. He suddenly felt like an interloper, a cuckoo's egg stealing another's warmth.

 

 _Born to those who have thrice defied him_... Harry laughed to himself bitterly. What a farce. Perhaps it had meant Neville all along, but much like he'd usurped James Potter's fatherly love and sacrifice, and his best friend's family, he'd somehow scooped up another's destiny as well.

 

Well, at least he'd managed to finish the job.

 

-

 

THURSDAY, 5 MAY

 

The funeral the following day turned out to be a simple graveside affair in an old cemetery on the other side of Ottery St. Catchpole, but he should not have been surprised. Anything elaborate would have been too costly. He felt guilty that it had not even crossed his mind that he perhaps should have offered... Well, they'd have refused, anyway, he knew. It might have even been insulting. Ron definitely would have resented it. Maybe it was better, then, that he'd not.

 

Beyond the Weasley clan, several distant relations and family friends were in attendance. Harry recognized only about half of them. His memory of most of the service was forever a haze afterward. The raw grief of Mrs. Weasley was nearly unbearable, as was Mr. Weasley's largely failed attempt at stoicism. Ginny had wept until her entire face was nearly as red as her hair and Ron had managed to tear his dress robes, wringing them in his hands almost unconsciously.

 

George disappeared about halfway though a droning eulogy being given by some sort of minister that Harry didn't know, and he briefly worried for Fred's twin. But only briefly. Harry ducked his head to hide his grin at the first crackle. A few heads glanced around and the droning voice paused only a moment before continuing on.

 

A loud bang, this time, off behind a hedgerow at the edge of the graveyard. Harry glanced up and caught Ginny smiling despite her tears. Mrs. Weasley stood, trying to catch sight of Fred's twin, to no avail.

 

A few screamed and covered their heads when suddenly the entire graveyard lit up like New Years' Eve, brilliant fireworks in every color shooting out from hedges and rocketing up from behind gravestones, filling the air with smoke and the scent of gunpowder, the display rivaling the one when George and his brother had departed Hogwarts, scattering witches and wizards, some of them leaping to hide behind headstones or vaulting over the hedges and fencing, while Mr. and Mrs. Weasley were shouting over the cacophony at everyone not to panic. Hermione simply remained standing where she was, a carefully schooled expression on her face save for a slight tilt at the corner of her mouth.

 

Harry calmly scanned his surroundings, spying a flash of red hair dodging through the gate on the farthest edge of the cemetery. Harry grinned and tore off after the fleeing figure. A heartbeat later Ron and Ginny followed behind.

 

He could not stop the high, giddy laughter that bubbled up from some deep place within him. He suddenly felt lighter than he had in years.

 

-

 

He was able to sit up largely unaided now, at least. Minerva watched him scowl in frustration as he struggled with the simple task of finishing a meal. His hands shook, badly. Peripheral nerve damage, Smethwyck had said, as though that meant something to her. It sounded like a Muggle term, but she had not cared to ask the distasteful man for further explanation. Poppy might have confidence in the healer's abilities, but the more Minerva spoke to him, the less she liked him. He seemed to regard Severus as some sort of laboratory rat in an experimental potions project. At least he had turned up in person to verify that the venom had been entirely purged from Severus's body.

 

Though not, apparently, before it exacted its price. A very high price, indeed, for someone such as Severus. His days as one of the world's most respected Potions Masters may well be over. It was questionable how well he'd be able to handle wand work, if nothing improved.

 

Smethwyck had been non-committal and vague when she'd asked whether the effect would diminish over time. Severus was the only one, apparently, who had survived this particular class and strength of cursed venom and Smethwyck refused to give any prognosis.

 

Severus himself had not uttered a single word during the healer's visit, but his angry, hawk-like gaze had followed the other man around the room unwaveringly as Smethwyck resorted to discussing him with Minerva as though he were not in the room.

 

Minerva now sat gripping the arm rests of the chair, refusing to give in to the temptation to rush over to him and help. The proud man would not likely appreciate it, and certainly not accept it.

 

The Aurors still would not let him leave, either. They had declined to question him, as of yet. Savage had dashed back to the Ministry to report to Shacklebolt as soon as he'd been relatively sure that his suspect was going to live. A day later, now Proudfoot sat in his usual place, ostensibly reading a copy of the Daily Prophet while pretending that he wasn't watching Severus's every move (and fooling exactly no one).

 

Finally Severus huffed and shoved the plate aside, a sudden unintended jerk at the end of the gesture sending it a bit further than he'd intended, resulting in a couple pieces of bread skittering across the floor. He leaned back in his seat, the high winged sides of the backrest more or less keeping him upright. Poppy had returned earlier, unshrinking another large, well-padded armchair from her pocket, placing it beside the one where she and Minerva had been sitting for much of the past few days and conjuring a small table between them.

 

“There is absolutely no reason for you to remain in this room, Minerva. I rather doubt your dear friend in the corner there will allow me to slip away.”

 

Severus's upper lip curled at the side in his trademark sneer (well, one of several trademark sneers, he had a collection ranging from “merely sardonic” to “you are something disgusting I just stepped in”). Something about the familiar gesture comforted Minerva.

 

He snorted derisively. “He hardly lets me go as far as the toilet without standing on my heels.”

 

They might have been chatting over supper in the Great Hall, were it not for the sweat beading on his forehead and the intermittent, uncontrollable tremors he could not suppress.

 

Minerva shrugged blandly and did not move. She suspected that Proudfoot and Savage were less worried about Severus trying to scarper and more concerned that he'd fall and break his neck before they could get him in front of the Wizengamot (or whatever was left of it).

 

Minerva was no Legilimens, but had a feeling that the two resident Aurors had not only already viewed Severus's memories but made their own conclusions already. And they did not seem unduly hurried to shuffle him off to Azkaban. Proudfoot seemed almost concerned with his charge, she thought.

 

It was no guarantee of a favorable outcome, of course. Minerva trusted Kingsly Shacklebolt's judgment but others may be far less equitable about it. Severus Snape had, indeed, killed Albus Dumbledore, with an Unforgivable Curse. That Albus had asked – indeed, _begged_ – him to do so, may not altogether exonerate him. And then, there were those who still believe he never should have been spared Azkaban the first time around, as a Dark Mark, in their eyes, was all they needed to know.

 

But they would have to cross that bridge when they reached it. For the time being, his wrecked nerves and black mood were her primary concern. And the matter of Harry Potter.

 

Severus glanced at her again, catching her eye from the corner of his own, his expression carrying a threat, albeit an empty one. His voice was less ravaged than before, but retained a rough edge.

 

“I do not need you here. I do not _want_ you here.”

 

Minerva shrugged, again.

 

“And yet, I _am_ here, Severus, and I do not altogether care right now _what_ you want, so you may as well get used to my presence. You do not want to hear it, but I will tell you anyhow. We simply owe you too much to let you sit here and destroy yourself, as you no doubt are keen to get on with.”

 

He responded by grumbling something unintelligible but no doubt insulting under his breath and refusing to look at her. He stared into the fireplace for several moments, apparently torn between his desire to ignore her and his need for information.

 

“Where is my wand,” he suddenly demanded.

 

“It wasn't with you when you were brought back, I'm afraid. It may still be in the Shrieking Shack somewhere. I'll ask Filius to have a look later.”

 

He raised his hand, but dropped it again. He could hardly expect to intimidate her while it still shook like a flower in a hailstorm, she thought. He settled for leaning forward and baring crooked teeth at her.

 

“I want it _now,_ Minerva.”

 

She paused and looked at him with the most impassive expression she could manage.

 

“They would not allow you to hold it at the moment anyhow, Severus, you are still under suspicion, as it were.” She nodded toward Proudfoot, who ducked behind his newspaper.

 

Severus breathed heavily through his nose, clenching his jaw until a muscle at the side of his head twitched. Minerva glanced up at the portraits. The image of Albus Dumbledore was sitting quietly but with a burdened look as he watched his living counterpart.

 

After several minutes of seething, Severus deflated slightly, slumping in his chair and settling for scowling with all the unmitigated bile of a four year old child who'd just been soundly refused something they wanted, which made Minerva feel suddenly a bit childish herself.

 

“Well, you just keep that expression and nobody will ever make the connection, I suppose.”

 

Severus turned slightly and cocked an eyebrow at her.

 

“Connection about _what_?”

 

“He may resemble you now, but I don't think he's ever quite perfected _that_ expression, no matter how cross he gets.”

 

He looked at her now as though she'd suddenly grown a second head.

 

“Have you swallowed a babbling beverage? _Who_ —“

 

“Your _son_ , Severus. We discussed this matter not too long ago, I believe? I admit, you were a bit out of sorts still, but you seemed lucid enough.”

 

If he'd been pale and sallow before, he now looked positively green. She was briefly afraid he might faint, but he merely slid down in his seat like an abandoned puppet.

 

“I thought I'd dreamt that you'd told me...”

 

Minerva sighed, wondering if this was how he dealt with everything he didn't really want to know. And if she should have delayed this discussion, yet again. Too late now. She stood and came before him, staring down at him with her hands on her hips, leaving him no way to avoid her. He would not ignore this, she was absolutely determined that he would not. If he never wished to speak two words to Harry ever again, that was his own decision, but he would _not_ deny a simple truth, not on her watch.

 

“The conversation was not a dream, Severus, and neither was it any dream over seventeen years ago, whatever you may have thought at the time. Harry is _real_ , he is _your_ son, and one of these days you are bloody well going to have to face that fact. So is he, for that matter, and you will not make it any easier for him, or yourself, by sticking your head in the sand.”

 

His dark eyes had taken on a glassy, faraway look, but she knew he could still hear her.

 

“He and his friends managed to defeat the most dangerous wizard in the last several centuries, you could do far worse, you know.”

 

He blinked up at her, something like normality returning to his features, but he did not respond. Minerva rolled her eyes and returned to her seat, conjuring a pot of tea and a cup from the kitchens far below to appear on the table and helping herself.

 

After a long while, a small, muttered comment reached her ears.

 

“I doubt he'll thank me in the least for the misfortune of inheriting _anything_ of my appearance...”

 

Minerva managed fair imitation of his trademark derisive snort herself.

 

“Of everything you could possibly comment upon, you choose _that?_ Well, I daresay he's still handsome enough to be getting on with. Of course he doesn't have your penchant for forever scowling at all and sundry and that certainly helps. His eyes are unchanged, Severus. That, at least, was no charm... or rather, I should say it's a perfectly natural one. Once he gets used to it, I honestly don't think he'll care. Unlike _some_ , he's never judged people primarily on their appearance.”

 

Minerva waited for his response, or some sort of reaction, but nothing was forthcoming. She glanced at him and found him staring blankly ahead.

 

“Well, Severus, I haven't told him everything yet, if you'd prefer to speak to him yourself. I think he has accepted that he is not related by blood to James Potter. The Weasleys dropped by and fetched him along with their son and Hermione Granger yesterday, I believe poor Fred's funeral was this afternoon. I told Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the gist of the problem before they left, but I do not know if they are willing or even able to speak to him of the _entire_ matter, although I must admit I somewhat selfishly hope they do, and spare me the task.”

 

Minera paused, glancing at Severus again. He was looking somewhat less like he'd just mistakenly stepped out into thin air from a great height, but his expression was guarded.

 

“Severus, it occurs to me that perhaps it really would be best if you spoke to him directly. And _honestly_.”

 

“He hates me.”

 

A simple statement of fact, devoid of emotion. So, he was going to play it like that then. Well, she could handle a cold debate in her sleep.

 

“He did, certainly. I am not at all certain that is true anymore. I suspect his opinion of you is rather less clear now.”

 

“Unlikely.”

 

“He did ask if he could see you, earlier. I mentioned that you were under guard by the Aurors, it might've put him off, as he did not ask a second time. You certainly gave him enough to consider with those memories, Severus. Your conversation with Albus seems straightforward and necessary enough, but all of those memories of his mother, my word...”

 

“His... Lily? _What_ memories...?”

 

He slouched forward in his seat, placing both hands against the armrests as though preparing to lever himself upright, but he could not seem to bear his own weight at the moment, his arms trembling where he leaned on them. She could see him craning his neck toward the shelf where the Headmaster's pensieve was normally stored. It was, of course, not there at the moment. The Ministry had seized the entire thing along with its contents, to prevent any accusation of tampering.

 

“Minerva, where—”

 

His voice came out as a rasp, as it had days before; he was nearing the edge of panic now, she could tell. He was no longer at death's door but would not do himself any favors in his still-fragile condition by descending to hysterics. Minerva stood and moved to gently press him back into his seat by his shoulders, feeling the outline of his bones under the thin robe Poppy had brought him.

 

“Severus, _please_. What is done is done. I... I suppose you may have offered up rather more than you'd intended, apparently, but there's no taking it back now, not until the ministry releases them back to you. Please, Severus, you...”

 

She hesitated, unsure of how to comfort him, or if it was even possible. She'd nearly said, _you have nothing to be ashamed of_ , but she knew it was an empty platitude at best, however hard he'd toiled and suffered all these years to make amends for his misspent youth. He snarled at her, and shrugged off her touch, turning his head into the corner of the wingback chair to avoid her looking at her.

 

Minerva gave up, moving back to her seat and leaving him to nurse his pain and embarrassment. _What a wretched life you've led_ , she thought. She picked up her teacup from the table, but the tea had gone cold.

 


	8. Chapter 8

FRIDAY, 6 MAY

 

Harry woke the morning after the funeral some time before dawn. Many of the guests had not departed until close to midnight and even after making his way to bed, Harry had slept poorly and woken several times in the middle of dreams full of shadows and a vague, furtive sense of searching for something.

 

He should feel grateful, he supposed, for being able to have the normal sort of bad dreams, rather than the kind that used to wake him with his scar burning like his head was cleaving in two. Harry glanced over toward Ron. It was too dark to see his face, but he was still sleeping peacefully and he snored softly.

 

It was probably not yet 5 o'clock but Harry slid to his bare feet and slipped quietly out of the door and down the stairs, bunching up the excess of the pajamas he'd borrowed from Ron at the waist, trying to prevent himself tripping on their length. _Maybe I should have borrowed some of Ginny's_ , he thought somewhat bitterly. Ron had always been taller than him and it had rarely bothered him in the past, but the last couple of years' growth left Harry not even quite reaching his friend's nose any longer. James Potter had been fairly tall, as far as he could tell from photographs. Maybe his real father had been shorter?

 

He made his way to the living room where he flopped into the corner of the sofa.

 

He couldn't think of anyone who had spent time around his mother who was particularly small, except Peter Pettigrew. Bile momentarily rose in the back of Harry's throat but he dismissed the thought out of hand – Pettigrew had been light-haired and rather stocky in build with short, sausage-like fingers. Harry lifted his own long, narrow hands, looking at them for a moment as though some truth might be written on them.

 

Harry glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands all pointed to “home” at the moment, even Percy's. They'd all been surprised when he'd come back to the Burrow after Fred's funeral, but he'd been surprisingly decent the whole evening. It was a pity that it took such a disastrous loss to get him to reconcile with his family, Harry thought. He couldn't understand anyone taking all of this for granted.

 

Now, Sirius had been dark haired, hadn't he? He hadn't been short by any definition but he was a bit shorter than James had been as a teenager, maybe? “Hm. Well, if I'm really Sirius's son, that's not so bad, I guess, I nearly was in a way anyhow,” he told the empty room.

 

Neither Hermione nor any of the of the Weasleys were up yet and the house was eerily quiet. Something scratched softly within the wall toward the kitchen and there was the distant sound of a dog barking somewhere. It was cooler downstairs than it had been in Ron's stuffy bedroom and Harry began to doze off despite himself.

 

A dim light showed red through his closed eyelids and the cushion beside him dipped. He jerked awake and saw Mr. Weasley sitting next to him on the sofa. Pale dawn light filtered in through a window.

 

“I suppose Ron is snoring again?”

 

“Wha-?” He pushed his glasses back up his nose as he sat up a little straighter. He really did need to see about getting another pair that fit properly. “Oh, no, Mr. Weasley. Well, yes, but I'm used to it. I just... couldn't sleep.” He pushed back against his hair, getting annoyed at the way it always seemed to be in his eyes anymore. It had a slightly tacky, greasy feel next to his scalp despite having been washed just the previous morning. He'd have to borrow more of Ron's shampoo.

 

Mrs. Weasley appeared and smiled at the two of them before heading toward the kitchen.

 

“Do you have any plans, Harry? I know you haven't had too much time this year to think about your future...”

 

Harry snorted. “Yea, been a bit distracted with that whole stopping-Voldemort thing.... I dunno, really. I used to think I wanted to be an Auror, but they require N.E.W.T.s to even get into the training program. Didn't really have time for that either.”

 

“Hm, well if you really can't stand the thought of another year at Hogwarts, I think they might be willing to make some exceptions with this autumn's applicants. They're extremely short-handed now, I'm afraid, after... well, I think they'd be foolish not to let you try it out, at least, after everything. I can make a few inquiries when I return to work, if you'd like?”

 

Harry smiled at that thought. “I'd really like that, yeah.”

 

Mr. Weasley glanced at the hallway toward the stairs on the other side of the room.

 

“I did want to talk to you about something else, I must confess. Maybe now's a good time before everyone wakes up.”

 

“Er...”

 

“Harry, Professor McGonagall spoke to Molly and myself before Ron brought you down the other day, filled us in on a few things that have happened in the last few days. I know she talked to you a bit about what this change means, with your appearance?”

 

Harry struggled to come up with a response. He didn't want to talk about this at all, but running out of the room again like he had at Hogwarts would only buy him some time, not a full reprieve. If McGonagall had been desperate enough to set the Weasleys onto him, she wasn't likely to let it drop.

 

“Harry, there is something you really do need to know. It's not something that changes who you are, not who you really are, but it may change how you feel about yourself. And, I'm afraid, about your mother.”

 

Harry closed his eyes and pulled nervously at his oversized sleeves.

 

“Yea, I know, _I know_. McGonagall told me already, I'm not really James Potter's at all, am I? I get that. I've accepted it. It's okay, it's... it's ancient history.”

 

Mr. Weasley patted his knee. Harry glanced up and saw Mrs. Weasley smiling at him softly from the door to the kitchen with a smudge of flour on her cheek.

 

“Harry, are you not the least bit curious who your father might be?”

 

Harry shrugged.

 

“I figured... well... maybe I'm... I dunno. Sirius had dark hair too, didn't he? I think I'm okay with that, he treated me like his son already anyway.”

 

Harry smiled at Mr. Weasley, not sure if he was trying to convince him or himself more. The thought that his mother... it still made him feel weird, like an itch under his skin, even if it had been Sirius, to think that his mother had been unfaithful, even once.

 

Mr. Weasley did not return his smile; indeed he suddenly looked troubled. Mrs. Weasley pulled her apron off, throwing it over a chair out of sight and pointed her wand at something in the kitchen before coming to sit in an armchair across from her husband and Harry.

 

She reached across and took Harry's still-unfamiliar hand into her own. Harry was starting to get nervous for real, now. Did they really have to talk about this at all? He didn't see the point. He didn't care what other people thought about how he looked, anyway, and his parents were dead, whoever they had been.

 

Mrs. Weasley gave her husband a meaningful look, apparently urging him to get on with it, whatever it was.

 

“Harry, your father isn't Sirius either. He's...”

 

Mr. Weasley hesitated and Harry's temper finally snapped under his nerves and exhaustion.

 

“ _What_? Unless you're going to tell me that I'm Voldemort's secret love-child, I can't possibly think of anything _so_ bad that—”

 

Mr. Weasley laughed nervously at his outburst, which just annoyed him even more, but finally spoke plainly.

 

“Sweet Merlin, Harry! No, not at all! I suppose compared to that, nothing is... No, Harry, you most certainly are not related to that... _creature_. Your father... o _h Merlin spit it out, Arthur..._ Harry, your father is Severus Snape. _There, I said it..._ ”

 

“Oh, _Harry_ —“

 

Ginny stood in the door from the hallway in her dressing gown, looking at him with a mixture of shock and pity.

 

-

 

_What a joke. My entire life is a huge, cosmic joke._

 

Harry sat at the table next to Mrs. Weasley staring into his cup of tea. Ginny was seated next to her father across from them.

 

“Harry, I'm sorry, I didn't meant to eavesdrop, but I didn't want to wake up Hermione, and...”

 

Harry could hear the sizzling of the pan on the stove behind him as more batter poured itself. After a moment, the pan would flip its contents over, then tip the pancake onto a plate with a heating charm. The smell ought to be making him ravenous by now. He was staring to miss having a proper appetite.

 

“Don't worry about it, Ginny. I'm sure everyone will realize sooner or later.”

 

 _Except me, the most dense man on Earth_ , he thought bitterly. The truth had been staring him in the face every time he looked into a mirror for days now. He'd seen Snape as a teenager, not even a full week past, when he'd looked in that pensieve. His eyes were still Lily's, sure, and his nose wasn't quite so oversized, thankfully, but otherwise... How had it happened, though? All new-found respect for the man's bravery aside, if that sorry, greasy sonofabitch had...

 

Harry suddenly banged a fist down on the table, causing teacups and spoons to rattle on their saucers. Ginny flinched and stared at him.

 

“He took advantage of my mother, I _know_ he did, he must've—“

 

Mrs. Weasley took hold of his wrist and squeezed sharply.

 

“Stop, Harry. Just _stop_ , now.”

 

Mr. Weasley glanced back toward the door and seemed to be listening. Of course, it was still a crowded house after all. Harry's voice might have woken somebody.

 

“Harry, Professor McGonagall spoke to him well before she told us anything. To make certain, you understand. He's quite ill from the attack, you know. Well, _I_ certainly do. But she did get an answer from him, of sorts. She didn't use Veritaserum but she seemed confident of his honesty. She did not believe that Lily had been... ill-used. If anything, Lily sort of, er, took advantage of _him_ , in a way, from the sound of it.”

 

Harry stared into his tea, anger still licking like little tongues of flame at the edges of his mind.

 

“But she wouldn't have—“

 

Mrs. Weasley turned to her daughter. “Ginny, dear, do you mind...?”

 

Ginny looked at Harry, hesitating.

 

“I suppose I can go ahead and get a bath in before breakfast...”

 

Harry watched her slide off her seat and walk away. She glanced back at him before turning the corner. Mr. Weasley waited until her footsteps receded and cast a silencing charm over the kitchen.

 

“Should have done that a lot sooner, really. Hm, been a hard week, I guess.”

 

He pulled at the collar of his shirt, a blush creeping up in either nervousness or embarrassment or both.

 

“Harry, you have to understand something. Sometimes people do things they wouldn't normally even think to do when they're, er... upset. And being married to somebody doesn't mean you're always going to get along. Sometimes you just don't think straight and, you do something... ahh...”

 

Mrs. Weasley smiled her husband, who was now beet-red, and bailed him out.

 

“Harry, what Arthur is trying to say is that sometimes we end up hurting somebody we love because they hurt us. Professor McGonagall explained that your mother had made a visit to her old neighborhood after having some kind of argument with James and apparently ran into Severus, who still lived in the area. They'd been quite close friends as children, I guess you know more about that than I would now... anyhow I suppose one thing must have led to another. But, Harry, we all make mistakes, sometimes, do you understand? And sometimes when we do, we just have to try and make up and make the best of things afterward.”

 

Harry felt vaguely nauseous. Mrs. Weasley began rubbing slow circles across his shoulders. He wanted to scream, or cry, or maybe run away somewhere, but he seemed rooted to the spot. Somehow it had been easier to face Voldemort. At least then, he'd had an enemy and his path was clear. This, however, was far muddier...

 

“Harry, dear, I know this is a lot to take in all at once...”

 

“It's all a mistake... it's just... some sort of mistake.”

 

“Harry, I'm afraid it _is_ true, you really are—“

 

Mr. Weasley was leaning forward, looking concerned and caring and Harry could hardly stand it at the moment, and that just made him feel even more wretched. He didn't deserve the Weasleys. He was just...

 

Harry shook his head.

 

“ _I'm_ just a mistake.”

 

“Now Harry, that is simply _not_ true—”

 

Harry slid off the seat, pulling away from Mrs. Weasley's comforting hold. He turned the corner, dashed across the living room and up the steps, bursting back into Ron's bedroom. He flopped back into his rumpled sheets and pulled them over his head, wishing he could just start the morning over entirely. Ron's snoring had not skipped a beat.

 

-

 

Ron rose immediately when Ginny banged on the door half an hour later, announcing breakfast. Harry pulled the blanket up further over his head.

 

“C'mon Harry, I smell bacon!”

 

Ron shook the vaguely Harry-shaped lump of blankets.

 

“Look, I know yesterday was... really, though Harry, there's nothing you could've done, nobody blames you.”

 

“I'm not... that's...”

 

He didn't just want to blurt out that he wasn't upset about Fred at the moment. It seemed... insensitive.

 

“Well, come on then, before Bill and Charlie eat all of it.”

 

Harry finally gave in, dragging the blankets off his head, raising sparks of static from his hair and making it stick to his face. He shoved it to the side. Was it even longer, now? Why was it growing so fast?

 

 _Must be some bloody stupid Snape thing_ , he thought. Even when the man was miles away at Hogwarts, he was making Harry's life a pain. _And to think I always wished for my father to be around before. Ha!_

 

The table was already crowded by the time he caught up with Ron. He looked over at George, missing an ear. And his twin. He was starting to become accustomed to the creeping guilty feeling, now.

 

Mrs. Weasley piled his plate with pancakes and shoved half a dozen slices of bacon on to go with them. Harry squeezed in between Hermione and Ginny, trying not to hit elbows as he set himself to the task of finishing the intimidating volume in front of him.

 

The family seemed in remarkably good spirits, considering the day before. If it weren't for slight moments where Mrs. Weasely would suddenly seem miles away, and her husband would take her hand and squeeze it under the table, Harry might never have guessed they'd just buried a son.

 

George seemed to go the other way – becoming louder, ruder and more mischievous than ever at times, as though he could make up for his brother's absence by being doubly obnoxious.

 

Charlie left after breakfast, begging off that he had to get back to Romania to check up on a sick dragon they'd been tracking for a few days. Some kind of illness was going about in the region and they were trying to keep it from spreading to neighboring populations. Sick dragons had an unfortunate tendency, he said, to stray out of their normal territories, putting them in danger of being seen by Muggles.

 

They passed the morning throwing an old quaffle around the back yard, swapping off with the old brooms from the shed. Hermione mostly sat on the garden wall watching with Fleur, but Harry managed to badger her into a couple of rounds. She only fell from her broom once, at least, necessitating Harry to execute a swift dive on the battered old Cleansweep to grab her by the wrist. She wasn't inclined to try again. Ah, well. At least the activity let him avoid any pressing questions from his friends.

 

Harry wondered what had happened to his old Firebolt after he'd dropped it when he'd been pursued while leaving the Dursley's last year. He had half a mind to return to Little Whinging to look for it, to see if it were perhaps still stuck in some Muggle's hedgerow, but he knew the chances were slim to none. It had probably been smashed, or, worse, snatched up by some Death Eater as a trophy. Perhaps he could get to Diagon Alley soon. If nothing else, he needed clothes and borrowing Ron's oversized ones brought back memories of Dudley's castoffs in a less-than-pleasant way.

 

He just hoped his parents' vault was safe. Well, his mother's and... whatever James Potter was to him. Sirius had left him a key as well, to a Black family vault that was by no means running bare, and it made him feel ill. He had no right to any of it. _I'm not James Potter's son_. And Sirius would be rolling in his grave, if he had one, to think he'd left all of his earthly possessions to the offspring of Severus Snape.

 

The quaffle pitched his way by Ginny caught him on the ear, sending him lurching off to the side.

 

“Ack, Harry! What's wrong?”

 

He shook his head and rubbed at his stinging ear, then pushed his glasses back up his nose. At least it hadn't been a bludger.

 

“Er, nothing Ginny. Just... got distracted a moment.”

 

Ginny touched down on the grass and Harry followed her.

 

“Are you sure you're okay?”

 

Ginny leaned down to pick up the dropped quaffle and threw it straight back up into the air for her brothers. George plucked it from mid-air and launched it at Bill.

 

“Why don't we put up these brooms and head in, then? You seem tired.”

 

Harry nodded at her and followed her to the broom shed, shoving the old Cleansweep in next to Ginny's broom before following her back inside.

 

It was blessedly cool in the kitchen when he sat at the table. Ginny pulled a couple glasses from a cabinet and put one in front of him with cold pumpkin juice before filling her own with water.

 

“Harry, you would tell somebody if you thought you weren't doing okay, right? You don't have to keep everything bottled up, you know.”

 

Harry nodded and gulped down half the glass in one go. Harry looked at Ginny, who was watching him with a soft expression. It hit him just how much he had missed her this last year. He'd broken it off with her after Dumbledore's funeral, and had meant it at the time – he couldn't live with himself thinking he'd make her a target. She had understood at the time, but months had passed.

 

But the war was over, right? Any words he might say stuck in his throat. Nothing seemed quite right for the moment. He wasn't even sure she'd... He couldn't stomach the thought right now that she might not want to start over. And couldn't blame her if she didn't. _I look like_ him _now, after all_ , he thought glumly as he took another sip of his juice.

 

Ginny leaned back in her seat and sighed. Whatever she'd expected him to say, he'd let her down, apparently.

 

“Voldemort's dead, Harry. You don't _have_ to do the Dutiful Soldier thing anymore. You're still seventeen, for Merlin's sake, not seventy-five.”

 

“I know that, Ginny.” He shoved his sweat-slicked hair back for the umpteenth time. Maybe Mrs. Weasley could cut it for him later. She probably knew some charms.

 

“Do you? Really? It's funny... sometimes you sit there staring a million miles away at nothing, and I wonder what you're thinking about. I think I get it, a little bit, maybe, but I'm not fooling myself thinking I understand all of it. But if you want to talk later, I'm willing to listen, just so you know.”

 

Harry smiled at her, nodding again. He scratched at his jawline now too, which in just the last day or two seemed to be gaining a bit of shadow to go along with the odd itch. He'd never had to worry about shaving, before, either. It struck him that after seven years surrounded by magic, he had no idea how Wizards dealt with the problem. Did they use a razor, like Muggles, or was there some sort of spell?

 

He snorted, laughing to himself. Ginny tilted her head, looking at him again.

 

“Is something funny?”

 

“Er, sort of. I'm not laughing at you, though, I promise.”

 

“Well?”

 

He shook his head, downing the rest of the juice.

 

“Just... well, nothing. That charm... thing. I never had to cut my hair before. Or, er... shave. Kind of itches, really.” He scratched at his chin again, starting to find it genuinely annoying.

 

Ginny laughed, a light musical sound to Harry's ears. He found himself blushing slightly.

 

“Good grief, Harry, only Muggles _shave_. Or idiots who want to look cool brandishing a straight-edge and end up cutting themselves. That one time Charlie tried it, we thought he'd been trying to cut his own throat for a moment... Just have Dad show you how to deal with it later, it's a pretty simple charm. You know, you might not look half bad with a bit of a beard, though. Could be a bit dashing and all, Mister Rugged Hero of the Wizarding World.”

 

She laughed again at her own joke, giving her hair a bit of a flip and grinning at him. He was blushing for real, now. He hadn't really given much thought to the actual _appeal_ of his appearance since the change, other than trying to avoid thinking about it at all. But he realized part of him _had_ sort of been worried about what Ginny would think.

 

“Er... uh. I'll think about it, I guess.”

 

“What? Oh, well... Harry, I know it's got to be weird looking like, um. Like Snape. But you don't look _just_ like him, you know. You still look a little bit like you did before. Your eyes haven't changed a bit, at least? And your nose isn't quite as big, thank Merlin. It's sort of, er, dignified? On _you_ , anyway.”

 

“Um, thanks. I guess.”

 

Ginny gave him an odd, mischievous smile that made him think of Fred and George. She suddenly leaned over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.

 

“Everything will work out, okay?”

 

He was saved having to figure out how to respond by the back door slamming open, everyone else returning from the garden, chatting as they filed in and plopped themselves down around him and Ginny at the table. Mrs. Weasley appeared a moment later, hovering a basket of clean laundry past and around to send it up the stairs before returning.

 

“You lot clean up and clear out of the kitchen, I need to start lunch, hm?”

 

-

 

After lunch, Bill and Fleur were packing up as well.

 

“Are you sure you can't stay the weekend, dear?”

 

“Sorry, mum, got a few things to take care of this weekend, I'm afraid. Gringotts have asked me to come back and I couldn't refuse – they've offered a promotion and a rise, but I have to return on Monday if I want the job. They're shorthanded now. I might be going back to Egypt soon.”

 

Fleur gave her mother-in-law a hug without hesitation. Harry was glad they'd buried the hatchet. Bill also hugged both of his parents before shouldering his and his wife's bags and heading toward the Floo. He glanced back at Harry with apologetic looking smile, maybe for his earlier suspicion, but said nothing. The flames flared green and both of them were gone.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

SATURDAY, 7 MAY

 

Hermione suggested the trip into London over supper the night before, as though she'd read Harry's mind. Ron and Ginny agreed immediately, as had George, saying he wanted to check up on the Wheezes shop and see what could be salvaged. It was the first time he'd mentioned it since Fred's passing, but he had managed to sound nonchalant and unworried. Harry didn't know how he managed.

 

Hermione had insisted on dragging them through a few Muggle department stores first. She and Ginny had rushed off to the Women's clothing in high spirits, leaving Harry to keep the other two Weasleys from making a spectacle of themselves among the Muggle shoppers.

 

He was glad for the Muggle cash he'd kept stashed away in a pocket (charmed for more space and to prevent pick-pocketing, of course) for emergencies. He'd actually used very little of it over the past months and had enough to afford socks and underpants, a couple pairs of trousers and jeans and some rather basic, plain-looking shirts. It wasn't exactly an impressive wardrobe, but he was fed up having to either wear the same thing day after day or borrowing off of his friends. He'd had to make a couple rounds to the fitting rooms as nothing in his old sizes fit anymore.

 

Harry ended up seated between Ron and George on a bench near the doors of the department store after he'd made his purchase, waiting on Hermione and Ginny. He glanced out of the glass of the shopfront display between a few shop dummies, watching the foot traffic going past.

 

After a while it clouded over and a quick thunderstorm popped up. Muggles rushed back and forth, umbrellas popping out, or newspapers being spread over heads as they rushed under shop eaves. It didn't last long, though and perhaps twenty minutes later the sun returned and steam rose off the pavement as it began to dry.

 

-

 

The Leaky Cauldron was packed when they entered and the mood was boisterous. Drunken voices sang off-color songs about the death of Voldemort and many of his followers, the tawdry lyrics having no resemblance whatever to the actual events. Harry laughed into his sleeve as he and his friends wound their way through the press of the crowd into the back alley. He liked their version better, anyway.

 

Diagon Alley was less crowded with many of the shops still closed and boarded up. Possibly their owners had not survived. However, repairs on several of them were clearly underway.

 

Harry waved at Florean Fortescue, who was putting up an advertisement on a new ice cream flavor celebrating the recent victory on his re-opened ice cream parlor. The shopkeeper looked at him vaguely, waving back in a friendly but impersonal manner. Of course, he wouldn't recognize Harry anymore.

 

“Well, look who it is. I had hoped I might run into your lot.”

 

Harry's light mood dissipated as he laid eyes on one Rita Skeeter. She ignored him, however, pinning her glare on Hermione and Ron instead. Harry ducked back, pulling down at his fringe and swiftly stashing his glasses in a pocket. Thank Merlin she had no idea who he was, he thought, although he felt bad for his friends.

 

“Your famous friend has been ducking me for a whole week, now. Just when is our hero Harry Potter going to stop hiding away in whatever corner he's got to? It wouldn't kill him to grant an interview, you know.”  
  
Hermione crossed her arms and looked down her nose at the bespectacled witch and her bothersome quick-quotes quill, already out in case she could wheedle something out of them.

 

“You know, I could still report you for you-know-what. The Ministry might be a shambles at the moment, but I happen to know Kingsly Shacklebolt _personally_. Got quite familiar with him during the war, you see. He's a great friend of Harry's also. I think he said something earlier about it being _Harry's own business_ if he wants to talk to _your_ lot?”

 

Harry coughed to cover a laugh. Skeeter looked at him, her eyes moving up and down over him as though trying to place him, but then turned back to Hermione.

 

“If he won't talk, we'll just have get the full story from _other_ sources, you know. And the Ministry needs the press, even if some of them just haven't figured it out yet. But they will! And anyway, I thought perhaps he'd like to give _his_ version of things, but if he's not interested... well.”

 

The hack writer smiled nastily at Hermione, waved at Ron as though they were old friends, and turned on her heel. Ron shook his head at her retreating back.

 

“She just never gives up, does she? As if she'd actually write anything you said, Harry. She'll just make up a bunch of her usual rubbish and print it either way, I reckon. Good job she doesn't know what you look like now, right mate?”

 

Harry smiled at Ron but felt concerned. He'd had too much trouble from Skeeter's corner in the past to brush it off. She could be nastier and more vindictive than Snape himself when she felt like she'd been slighted, and had the whole community's ear to spread her particular brand of slander, libel and venom.

 

“I don't know, Ron. I have a feeling we haven't heard the last from her.”

 

Hermione turned back to look at Harry, his worries reflected in her expression as well. Ginny just reached over to squeeze his hand, then took the lead in the opposite direction from the one Skeeter had taken.

 

-

 

Harry went into Gringotts alone as his friends waited outside. The gold in his parents—his mother's and James Potter's vault no longer pleased him. He felt like a thief as he scooped up a few galleons and sickles, and shoved them into a charmed bag to stuff into his pocket.

 

 _He loved you enough to protect you with his life_ , Mrs. Weasley had said. _Yea, but did he ever even suspect?_ Harry thought to himself. Had Lily ever planned on even telling him? If they had survived, would they even still be married? He'd certainly spent enough time as a child daydreaming about his parents turning up alive and taking him away from the Dursleys, of having a loving home with the two of them. Maybe there had never been any real chance of that.

 

He'd thought briefly of using Sirius's key and going into the Black family vault instead, but it had caused acid guilt to burn in the pit of his stomach. Sirius had known him and not just as an infant. He'd gone on and on about how much like James he was. He'd even called him James, mistakenly, one time. Harry knew that on some level, Sirius had considered him to _be_ James Potter, in a way, his best friend returned to him from out of the past. Harry had wanted so badly at the time to go live with his godfather, to have someone who could be like real family, who loved him.

 

Would he ever stop feeling like he had done something wrong? Or feeling that he was the butt of some grand joke played by the universe? His rational mind kept telling him, just push it all aside. They're all dead, every last one of them. They can't say anything. They can't take anything away from him, now, either. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs. Even Remus was gone. A whole generation, dead before its time.

 

All except Snape, that was. That greasy git was officially the last man standing. _And I sure as hell don't want to talk to him._ If he couldn't bring himself to blame his mother for his situation, he could jolly well blame Snape, who apparently couldn't keep it in his trousers for one sorry night, the lousy bastard.

 

And if he had done, then Harry would have been James Potter's son for real. And probably born on a different day. Then it would have been Neville Longbottom after all, wouldn't it? Could he really wish it all away and onto Neville? He'd proven himself in the end, a true Gryffindor after all, but Harry imagined Neville as a first year, standing in front of the Mirror of Erised with Professor Quirrell. As a second year in the Chamber of Secrets with Tom Riddle and a basilisk. He felt ashamed of himself all over again.

 

The Gringotts goblin began tapping its foot at the door of the vault, impatient with Harry's wool-gathering. He gave the vault one last look and turned his back on it.

 

-

 

Eeylops Owl Emporium had re-opened, although half the merchandise shelves were bare and the number of owls was much reduced from what they'd been before. Harry looked through the windows at the owls sleeping in their cages.

 

He wasn't sure if he wanted another owl yet, although he knew the usefulness of them. The Weasleys didn't mind lending him Pigwidgeon or Errol, but he couldn't stay with them forever.

 

“You wanna go in, Harry? We've got time. I should get Pig some owl treats, anyway.”

 

Harry shrugged at Ron. He wouldn't really mind having his own owl again.

 

“Maybe we can just look around?”

 

A bell over the door tinkled as they walked in. Most of the birds paid no mind, their heads tucked up under a wing as it was the middle of the day. Harry glanced around at the cages. None of them were a snowy owl, but the thought of getting another made him sad, anyway. Hedwig had been more than a mere pet, she'd been a friend, and the only one he'd had during his summers with the Dursleys.

 

He walked up to one cage where the owl was awake. The large, handsome barn owl looked at him calmly from her perch. He reached up to the bars of the cage with a knuckle to see if it took an interest in him. The bird looked at him and fluffed up its feathers a little, but did not attempt to bite him. The head swiveled as Ginny walked up beside him and it made a soft twittering noise at her.

 

“She seems friendly.”

 

“Yeah, she does.”

 

Harry looked at the tag on the cage. Ten Galleons for the bird itself, another two for the cage. He reached up and unhooked it, carrying it carefully over to the till, setting it on the counter for a moment as he turned back to pick up a few owl treats and care supplies.

 

They made their way back to Fortescue's for ice creams as the day warmed up. Harry set his new owl's cage down beside his seat. Ron glanced down at the bird as it gobbled up the the owl treats Harry had tossed into its dish before settling back down to sleep.

 

“What are you going to name her?”

 

“Hadn't thought about it. I sort of picked Hedwig's at random, out of our first year History of Magic book. I guess I'll think of something sooner or later.”

 

Afterward, Harry trailed behind his friends with no particular destination in mind, letting them set their path. George got impatient and left them while Hermione was flipping through the stacks at yet another a second-hand book shop. A few copies of the Skeeter-penned biography of Albus Dumbledore were stacked on a table. Harry considered buying them all just to burn them later.

 

He glanced through the shop window across the street at a second-hand broom shop, but decided against it. There'd be time to play with broomsticks some other day. He knew as he thought about it that he would not return to Hogwarts in the fall, although Hermione seemed bent on it. It was tempting, in a way, to go back and play Quidditch on the Gryffindor team, worry about losing house points (instead of lives), to wander down to Hogsmeade on weekends... In short, to let himself be a child again for just one more year.

 

It wouldn't be the same, though. Albus Dumbledore was dead. For all his scheming and secrets, Harry couldn't bring himself to hate the man. In a way, Dumbledore's decisions had been just as constrained as Harry's, as soon as Voldemort had decided that the prophecy meant Harry Potter and not something else. Voldemort had to die, at any cost, or the war could have gone on for decades.

 

It might never have ended, until Voldemort had achieved his aim of creating his pure-blood society, through killing or enslaving everyone else. And if he'd gone after the Muggles... Harry shuddered at the thought. The damage would have been immense. And if the Muggles had gotten desperate... he'd seen enough war documentaries and news snaps as a child to know they possessed their own weapons, some of them with truly terrifying destructive potential.

 

Maybe he'd remind Mr. Weasley of his offer to ask around at the Ministry about applying for Auror training. If he needed N.E.W.T.s he'd have to go back (and try to get used to being treated like a teenage boy again), but if they were willing to take him on his experience with horcruxes and with Death Eaters and with Voldemort, he knew he'd apply immediately. Who knows, maybe Ron would join him...

 

-

 

Harry sat cross-legged on the floor of what was left of Weasley Wizard Wheezes' old stock room, where they'd gone to catch up with George. Harry's as-yet-unnamed owl slept in her cage on the floor next to him along with his bag from the Muggle department store. Hermione and Ginny were sitting on crates next to the cold hearth.

 

George and Ron were dragging crates around the room, opening them one at a time and seeing what could be salvaged. Most of the leftover stock that Fred and George hadn't been able to take away with them had been broken into at some point or another, and the rest had been gnawed at by vermin and the layer of dust was thick over everything.

 

“Gonna take a while to get things up and running again, I guess,” Harry remarked to the room in general.

 

George shrugged where he was bent over a crate of fireworks.

 

“Eh, I'll manage. I have a few things stashed in mum and dad's attic, they're still there. Guess the Death Eaters didn't have enough imagination to care about this sort of thing. Their loss, some of these 'jokes' are dead useful in the right situation. I think there might be a few things left at Aunt Muriel's too, I'll pop in later and take an inventory.”

 

Harry thought about the extendable ears, the skiving snack boxes, the Peruvian instant darkness powder... he shuddered slightly at the last one, which Draco Malfoy had proven to be quite useful indeed, against Dumbledore's Army in any case. George was right, though. They were exactly the sort of “childish” thing that Voldemort and his followers had discounted and ignored, considering it all beneath them.

 

Harry was slumped over against a crate and dozing by the time George and Ron had finished making their list of remaining stock and noting the damage to the building that needed repairing. When they stepped back out onto the street, the sun had dipped below the buildings, painting an orange glow and long shadows across the alley. A few wizards and witches still milled about, but it was mostly quiet. They walked back to the Leaky Cauldron mostly in silence to use their floo, although Harry's new Barn Owl was now awake and shuffling about in her cage.

 

 -

 

 

SUNDAY, 10 MAY

 

Harry found himself awake earlier than the rest of the house again. This time he simply dragged himself into the bathroom and stuck his head under the shower until it stopped aching. He couldn't believe it was nearly a full week, now, since he'd gone to Hogwarts to confront Voldemort with his friends. Somehow it seemed both like it had happened yesterday and like it had happened ages ago.

 

When would he get his life back?

 

The hot water was soothing as it cascaded over his back and surrounded him with steam. Had he ever really had a life of his own, though? Not since the day he'd gotten his Hogwarts letter, and before then it had really only been an illusion. He'd been marked from the time he was a year old, pushed headlong down a path that had been laid out before him by others. He'd never really had a _choice_ before.

 

His plan of becoming an Auror seemed like a distant, flimsy thing. He wouldn't be able to apply before August and wouldn't know if he'd even been accepted until September. He wouldn't know if he could apply at all, until he spoke to someone at the Ministry, or waited for Mr. Weasley to do so.

 

Maybe he'd see if his new owl would deliver a letter to the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, later. He wondered who was in the position, now that Shacklebolt had been promoted to Minister of Magic.

 

Finally shutting off the taps, he dragged himself out and used his wand to dry himself off. His reflection looked somewhat haggard, an effect only heightened by the sharpness of his new cheekbones and a few days' growth of beard. His fringe was almost long enough now to sweep back behind his ears and the rest nearly reached halfway down his neck. He could see why Mrs. Weasley was bent on feeding him, his collarbones showed prominently under his pale skin.

 

Eyes aside, he looked more than enough like the boy in the pensieve now... how could he have ever not realized it? A voice in the back of his head that sounded suspiciously like Professor McGonagall whispered that he should, at some point, at least _speak_ to the man, but the thought made him feel angry and hot all over. Snape was still at Hogwarts, he supposed, maybe dying. He'd not thought to ask after him at all, but if he had died, no doubt McGonagall would have sent word.

 

Why did it have to be _him_ , anyway? He wished he could just hate the man and be done with it, but for all of his anger, if he were honest with himself, he actually didn't. He owed his life to Severus Snape, and not just because of the circumstances of his conception. He thought of the hexed broom in his very first Quidditch match, how he'd been so sure that Snape had been the one doing it, rather than Quirrell.

 

For all his ranting, raving and insulting, for all the detentions he'd had Harry spend scrubbing out cauldrons by hand, he'd never actually sought to do real harm to Harry. He had, in fact, done everything he could to keep Harry alive, right up until the very end.

 

Snape had been outraged and sickened at what Dumbledore had told him about the horcrux hidden in Harry's scar. He'd been absolutely livid at the knowledge that Harry had to die, in a way that even Dumbledore had just more or less been resigned to, what ever his insistence that it was only ever about Lily.

 

Then Snape gave Harry the information he'd needed – not a half-truth meant to spare his feelings or placate him, but what nobody else ever had: the absolute, unadorned truth, and therefore a real _choice_.

 

Harry pushed aside his conflicted emotions and pulled his clothes on. At least he had something that fit, now. Ginny's teasing aside, he really did need to find out what that charm was to get rid of the stubble; he looked like he'd been sleeping under a bridge somewhere.

 

-

 

The Sunday morning edition of the Daily Prophet sat on the table like a cursed thing. Mr. Weasely had thrown it down in front of him like it like it had bitten him.

 

“You'd just better take a look, Harry.”

 

The photograph splashed across the front page had to be the work of Rita Skeeter.

 

There was Harry, as he looked now, walking out of the Wheezes shop into Diagon Alley the evening before with the barn owl in one hand and his shopping in the other, trailing after his friends.

 

 _Harry Potter's Darkest Secret, Revealed!_ screamed the headline.

 

_Sources which prefer to remain anonymous have shared with the Daily Prophet new revelations about The Slayer of Voldemort, who has been found alive and well, but with a startling new appearance. Or perhaps an old one, might be a better term. The anonymous informant stated that the very same day the young Hero brought down Lord Voldemort, six days ago, curses used against him in that dreadful battle dispelled a powerful, forbidden charm used to conceal the true ancestry of the Boy Who Lived. In a shock revelation, it seems that Harry Potter is not a Potter at all, but the son of a Death Eater, Severus Snape, who still stands accused of murdering Albus Dumbledore..._

 

Harry felt a coldness seeping into his body, a rage that went beyond anger. She had no right. _She had no right_.

 

He did not need to ask how she'd found out. The unregistered animagus need only have loitered about at Hogwarts long enough, probably buzzing after Professor McGonagall. Hermione's threats had not been enough to restrain the unrepentant gossip; this story had been just far too much temptation for her to resist.

 

Harry dropped the paper back to the table, trying to master himself and breathe evenly.

 

-

 

An owl dropped the newspaper next to her tea, swooping off without even slowing. She paid no mind to it, until something in the photograph caught her attention. She took a sip of her tea as she picked it up, shaking it out to unroll it. The teacup smashed onto the table. Flitwick jumped in his seat next to her.

 

“My word, Minerva!”

 

She shoved the paper in front of him and he understood.

 

-

 

She brought the paper up to Severus. He read for a moment, then flung it straight into the fireplace without a word.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

MONDAY, 9 MAY

 

This had been done swiftly last time. He had not even been allowed to speak on his own behalf; Albus Dumbledore's testimony along with a few statements taken under Veritaserum by the Aurors before he'd ever set foot in here, had been enough. He'd been 'small fry' at the end of the first war, there were bigger Death Eaters to catch and the ministry had been nearly as fragmented then as now. Then, the feeling had seemed to be, if Albus Dumbledore wanted his own pet Death Eater, then Be It On His Own Head.

 

This time, however, most of the Death Eaters were already dead, and the Wizengamot could conduct this at their leisure. He did not doubt for a moment that this was a fine day's entertainment for some of them, glancing over their faces. There were only about thirty figures on the benches, with Kingsley Shacklebolt at the front and center.

 

Proudfoot had kept a grip on his arm since they'd taken the portkey from Hogwarts to the entrance of the Ministry of Magic. He was not ungentle and although Severus would never admit it, he would have fallen more than once without the Auror's support. Savage trailed behind them as Severus' silent shadow.

 

Minerva had pleaded with them to allow him the use of a cane, at the very least, to preserve his dignity, but the Aurors had not relented. He supposed they did not want him to have anything which could be even interpreted as a weapon. As though he'd get far whacking at the Aurors' shins with a mere stick. He didn't even have a wand.

 

The Aurors led him to the chair at the center of the room.

 

“I think we can dispense with the shackles today, Proudfoot.”

 

Severus glanced at Shacklebolt. The man's expression revealed nothing and he did not have the courage to attempt Legilimency; Aurors were generally competent at Occlumency, if rarely adept (by Severus's standards, anyway) and the man would possibly notice.

 

Proudfoot nodded and helped Severus to sit before moving back to stand directly behind him with Savage. The chains on the defendant's seat rattled at him but he paid them no mind. He balled his hands into fists, trying to still the tremor.

 

He was not nervous or afraid, not this time. He tried to muster up some sort of emotion about this, but felt only exhausted. If they threw him in Azkaban, so be it. He may not technically have murdered Albus Dumbledore, not in the strict sense, but he'd done plenty enough in his thirty eight years of life for it to be a fitting coda.

 

Perhaps there, at least, they'd leave him alone and let him rest. The Dementors had disappeared after Voldemort's fall, and human guards held no terror for him. It sounded peaceful, really.

 

“Mr. Weasley?”

 

Severus glanced down the line to where Percy Weasley sat, parchment and quill in hand. He'd apparently reconsidered his resignation from the Ministry.

 

“Ready, sir.”

 

“Judicial hearing of the Ninth of May,” Shacklebolt stated blandly, as though he were reading the weather report, “The Defendant, Severus Snape of Number Two, Spinner's End, Cokeworth, England, has been charged with Murder, Premeditated, committed against one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorcerer, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, et cetera.... perhaps most known as the Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.”

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt paused, clearing his throat loudly before continuing. “This offense is alleged to have been committed on the Thirtieth of June in the Year Nineteen Hundred and Ninety-Seven, at or about Midnight, corroborated by witnesses who were in attendance at the time, whose statements have been provided to the members of this tribunal.”

 

The Minster of Magic glanced at Percy, who was writing swiftly but calmly, the long, white plume of the extravagant quill twitching like a squirrel's tail. Shacklebolt paused, his eyes darting slightly to his right and to his left, as though he could somehow see those seated behind him.

 

“I would like to take this moment, on record,” he pronounced, glancing again to Percy Weasley, “To remind the esteemed witches and wizards of the Wizengamot (those of who are still here, that is) that we are present today to make a judgment on this _specific_ charge based upon all _relevant_ facts pertaining thereto. I will not tolerate any member who attempts to turn this into some sort of drumhead court-martial. The war is over and we shall not treat this court of justice as an ersatz battlefield. Despite the... difficulties... that the Ministry has had following the defeat of Lord Voldemort, I expect the _highest degree_ of integrity from those who remain.”

 

He paused, perhaps to see if any would object, or merely to let his words sink in.

 

“Interrogators: Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister of Magic (Interim); Gawain Robards, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (Interim); Percy Ignatius Weasley, Court Scribe...”

 

Shacklebolt paused, staring at the paper in front of him, then lifting his gaze across the long room at Severus Snape.

 

“You do not appear to have submitted a single name as Witness for your defense, Mr. Snape. If this is an oversight, we may call a recess to—“

 

“It is not.”

 

Shacklebolt glanced to the Aurors standing behind him, but Severus did not hear any response and assumed they must have indicated a lack of knowledge.

 

“Neither do you appear to have any legal counsel with you. May I take it that this is also not an oversight?”

 

“You may.”

 

Shacklebolt continued to stare at him, his lips parted slightly for a moment. Finally he raised an eyebrow at Severus and glanced toward Percy Weasley, as though to make sure he'd gotten everything down, before turning back to the defendant.

 

“Do you understand what you have been accused of?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you understand that you may be sentenced to a lifetime in Azkaban without any hope of release, if you are convicted?”

 

“Yes.”

 

A shadow of something passed over the Minister's face.

 

“Very well. How does the Defendant plea?

 

 _Innocent_ , he meant to say. A heartbeat passed. Percy Weasley shuffled his parchment.

 

“Guilty.”

 

-

 

Severus trembled where he sat on the bench outside the courtroom. A recess had been called for members of the Wizengamot to review the contents of the Hogwarts Headmaster's pensieve individually. The investigation report of the Auror's office had included a description of those portions related to Albus Dumbledore, but a pair of especially aged witches had demanded to see it themselves, and soon most of the rest had chimed in as well.

 

As soon as he saw it appear in the hands of some junior Auror, Severus had wanted to rush out of his seat and snatch it up, dash it to the floor perhaps. He hadn't moved a hair's breadth.

 

The ever-present shaking in his hands had spread to the whole of his body. He slumped forward in his seat, his elbows on his knees above feet spread in front of him in an attempt to brace his weight up against the floor, the curtain of his black hair obscuring his view of the hallway. Savage and Proudfoot were seated on either side of him so closely that he could feel the heat of their bodies through his robe.

 

His life had been reduced to a Muggle's circus sideshow exhibit, a pitiful, deformed thing to be gawked at and reviled by a crowd. Perhaps they would let schoolchildren throw peanuts at him in his cell at Azkaban, next.

 

_I should have died. It was my_ right _to die._ _ Curse that bloody Potter boy, why did he send his idiot friends into the Shrieking Shack? _

 

He could have gone to his grave never knowing. Never knowing that Lily had borne him a son. That she had then hidden him in the one way sure to guarantee that Severus would never have the slightest interest in the child.  _ Oh, but I  _ did _ , Lily. I didn't have a choice, not then. Not after I'd gotten you killed. _

 

-

 

Shacklebolt had repeated the same questions of him, worded one way and then another, until he wanted to scream at the man.

 

Yes, I killed him. Yes he asked me to do it. Yes, several times, I've said this already, I've said why, why do you keep bringing it up? Yes, I used the damned bloody killing curse, shot him down off the bloody astronomy tower in a flash of green and had to flee like the goddamn coward they all accuse me of being. And then return, yes. The bloody sword of Gryffindor, like he told me to, he left orders and orders and orders. The Doe. Yes, the Doe is  _ Her _ . Why does any of this  _ matter _ . Just send me away already. Azkaban,  _ fine _ . I am prepared.

 

What difference did it make, in the end, that Albus Dumbledore had begged him to do it? If he didn't deserve prison for this, then they could send him for the countless other sins he'd committed.

 

By the end, the collected heads of the Wizengamot looked down upon him with varying levels of scorn and pity. After a couple of hours which felt like days, Shacklebolt finally dismissed him so that the Wizengamot could deliberate.

 

He tried to stand and fell to his knees, sharp pain flaring when he landed hard on the stone floor. His hands spasmed as he tried to push himself up. In the end, Proudfoot and Savage had to lift him, a firm grip on both arms, and all but frog-march him back outside. He had not felt so humiliated since the last time he'd found himself on the wrong end of the Marauders as a boy.

 

-

 

He was not long waiting on the bench, this time. An hour, perhaps, no more. He was able, at least, to return to the Accusation Seat under his own power this time. He was ordered to rise again almost immediately. He stood, this time without falling, staring blankly at a spot on the floor halfway between himself and the assembly.

 

“The Wizengamot will now make its decision on the charge brought against the Defendant. Those in favor of clearing the witness of all charges?”

 

Severus did not allow himself to look up.

 

“And those in favor of conviction?”

 

“The defendant, Severus Snape, has been cleared of the charge of Murder, Premeditated. Let the record show that the Wizengamot has included consideration of wartime provisions in this matter with regard to extenuating circumstances surrounding the use of an Unforgivable Curse during deliberation.”

 

Severus could not look up. He could not move. The shuffling of papers, shifting of robes and tap of shoes on stone indicated that the assembly was breaking apart. His hands began trembling again and he shoved each under the opposite elbow, pressing them against his ribcage.

 

The room felt empty, finally, and he looked up. Savage had departed but Proudfoot was standing close by, looking at him with a worried expression.

 

“Do you want me to fetch somebody?”

 

Severus realized the Auror had never actually spoken directly to him before. His voice was soft and sad and kind. It reminded him vaguely of Remus Lupin. He wanted to push the man aside, but he could not make himself move.

 

Kingsley Shacklebolt was the last member of the assembly remaining in the room. He came around the benches used by the Wizengamot and was approaching him with a swift stride.

 

“Come along, Severus. I think we need to talk.”

 

Shacklebolt nodded at Proudfoot and swept toward the door. Proudfoot took hold of Severus's arm again, pulling at him until his paralysis left him and he began to walk forward, jerking from one foot to the other like some sort of automaton.

 

Several hallways & lifts later, Severus had been ushered into the private office of the Minister of Magic. Proudfoot guided him to a padded leather chair in front of Shacklebolt's desk. Shacklebolt seated himself on the other side, steepling his fingers in front of his chin as he leaned forward to study the ex-Death Eater.

 

“Well, that was quite possibly the strangest hearing I have ever attended.”

 

If he expected reply or comment, Severus did not offer one.

 

“Pardon me if I am presuming too much, but one could almost suspect you _want_ to go to Azkaban today, listening to you speak in that room. There were some who were ready to give you your wish.”

 

Another pause. Severus could hear a ticking somewhere, like that of a small clock. Two inter-office memos winged their way past his head to land on the Minister's desk.

 

“I find I am worried about you, Severus. Not long ago I had, indeed, believed you to be guilty of this crime, as Albus Dumbledore no doubt intended me to believe, but I am more grateful than you know that I was wrong. I've always considered myself a good judge of character, after all, and had found you to be a worthy member of the Order of the Phoenix in the past. 

 

“I will not discuss what I saw in the pensieve today as I know much of it was very personal and likely not intended, given the circumstances under which they were obtained. Your memories will be returned to you once everything has been filed, of course.” 

 

A slight twitch began under Severus's left eye.

 

“Severus... I know this may be difficult for you to believe, but you are not alone. You have friends, more than you are probably aware of. There are people who care for you, or would if you would only allow them to. You have a son, you—“

 

Red washed over Severus's vision and only the knowledge that he would be under a full-body bind before he'd gotten two inches kept him from leaping across the desk at the infuriatingly calm man sitting there. As it was he could only utter his reply through clenched teeth, with a look of pure loathing.

 

“Do _not!_ Never! _Never again_ speak to me of _Harry Potter_!”

 

He shoved himself to his feet and moved as quickly as he could risk to the door, slamming it behind him.

 

Shacklebolt breathed a sigh and turned to the stunned Auror.

 

“Do see that he makes it back to Hogwarts, at least.”

 

-

 

Minerva sighed and refused to look again at the clock. Classes had resumed for the fifth and seventh years studying for their exams but that still left her more time than she'd have liked to brood. The Aurors had carted her young Headmaster off to the Ministry early that morning and they had not yet returned.

 

She wondered if Arthur Weasley had gone back into work this morning and considered firecalling him at the Ministry for news, but stopped herself. It was beneath her to allow herself to become this distracted, but she had a nasty feeling that Severus's trial might not go well. Not the least because the man's black mood that morning left her in doubt as to whether he'd even bother to defend himself at all. She'd offered to stand as a witness; he'd flatly refused. She'd made her statement several days before, as had numerous others. She just hoped it was enough.

 

Until told otherwise, she considered him to be the Headmaster of this school, as did the school's magic, still. He'd quite possibly become the youngest in the post in several centuries, if not the entire history of the institution. Maybe she'd look it up later and find out for certain. She'd spent the last year resenting his presence, hating him with all her heart. Now she shuddered to think of the damage the Carrow twins might have done, had he not been subtly sabotaging them. What if instead of Severus in the position, it had been, say, Bellatrix Lestrange?

 

She dropped the stack of parchment back onto the Headmaster's restored desk. He will be allowed to return to his private quarters upon his return, and the improvised hospital/prison that the room had served as would no longer be needed.  _ If _ he returned.

 

The shock of the day before came back to her. Oh, if she could only get her hands on that Skeeter woman. Preferably around the woman's neck. She had hoped that father and son would have some time, at least, to cope with what they now knew, but with it forced out...

 

The notion that Severus might simply pack up and leave gave her a deep foreboding. He was a deeply private man, and to have so much his past and his life ripped out into the open light of day – first with the overflowing pensieve, and now  _ this _ .

 

_ He needs looking after, _ she thought. Then she laughed at herself.  _ He's no child in need of mothering, he's survived everything the world has thrown at him. _

 

But would he survive himself?

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

TUESDAY, 10 MAY

 

Harry walked through Hogsmeade, grateful for the heavy rain that kept all but the most determined indoors and allowed him to wear a cloak with the hood pulled up in May without it drawing undue attention.

 

He'd all but ordered Hermione, Ron and Ginny not to come. Even Mrs. Weasley had volunteered. This was something he needed to do himself and he'd asked far too much of them lately already. By the time he'd packed a few things in a bag and reached for the floo powder at the Burrow after lunch, Ron and Hermione were arguing again about Hermione's parents. Ron was right, though – there was no reason for her to delay any longer. The last thing he did before shouting his destination into the fireplace was to turn to Hermione and shout at her. _Just go already, then at least he'll shut up about it._

 

He envied her. All she had to do was fetch her mother and father back from the other side of the world and restore their real memories. Harry, on the other hand, now walked in the direction of his... whatever... with all the black resolve with which he'd walked to face Voldemort just one week ago.

 

Somehow, this frightened him in way which that had not. The worst he'd had to face with Voldemort was the mere surety of death. There was no _after_ to think about, just a job to be done with and a mess that would be someone else's to clean up. That he'd survived at all was a shock he'd not quite recovered from yet. He hadn't expected to be here at all, much less dealing with a... father... that he'd certainly never expected to have.

 

He was getting ahead of himself, though. There was no guarantee that Snape would even consent to speak to him at all. He wasn't sure why he was even going to make the attempt. Harry didn't want to speak to him. Something in him compelled him forward.

 

The rain slackened as he passed through the gates at the bottom of the grounds, the deluge becoming a steady, gentle rain. Mud coated his boots and sucked at them as he stepped through the puddles.

 

It was an obligation, of some sort. This man who had suffered and nearly died keeping him alive, all because he had loved Harry's mother, even past death. _And insulted me and my friends the whole damned time he had worked to preserve us._

 

His mind was as muddy as his boots and the bottom several inches of his trousers and cloak by the time he reached the castle. It would be dinner time, those few students remaining to prepare for exams clustered in the warmth of the great hall as a projection of the angry sky churned above.

 

Harry paused before the massive doors, hesitating to enter. Snape's exoneration would have been buried somewhere in the middle of the Daily Prophet had it not been for the headline of the day before. As it was, it had been splashed across the front page in the morning with the same stock photo that had been used when he'd been put in the position of Headmaster months ago. The article's description of his condition had been alarming, but Harry reserved judgment, knowing the rag's penchant for exaggeration and outright fabrication, even though the byline was not Skeeter's for once.

 

Would he still be hidden away up in the Headmaster's office? Would he be sitting at the staff table, in the seat where Albus Dumbledore had sat a year ago?

 

The rain began soaking into his clothing as the water-repelling charm he'd put on his cloak hours earlier began fading. Normally his charm lasted a couple of days, at least, but perhaps he'd been distracted this morning. It was not particularly cold, but between the wind and the dampness, he felt chilled. Steeling himself, he pushed his way inside.

 

-

 

Harry pushed his cloak hood back and stood inside the entrance, dripping muddy water onto the floor for several long minutes, soaking in the warmth and bright torchlight of the castle he had considered his home for six years.

 

“ _Evanesco!”_

 

Harry looked up at Terry Boot standing in the hallway just outside the doors of the Great Hall. The mud on Harry's clothing and the growing puddle on the floor disappeared under Boot's banishing charm.

 

“Hey, Harry. Er... Better not let Filch see you dripping on the floor, he's back to his old miserable self now. Um.. I guess you're here to see your, uh, dad, then?”

 

Harry goggled at his old classmate. _Dad_ ?! Why would Boot think he'd ever call Snape _that_ ? He felt like he'd just been hit with a _langlock_ curse; his tongue might as well have been glued to the roof of his mouth.

 

Terry blushed slightly and cast a quick drying charm on Harry's sodden cloak, tilting his head to the side in a slightly bewildered expression that would have been more fitting on Fang the boarhound than on a seventh-year Ravenclaw.

 

“Sorry, um... bit weird, though, innit? I mean finding out after all these years that... er... well. Nobody's gonna hold it against you though. Well, nobody with half a brain. Can't help who you're related to, after all.”

 

“I never would have been able to defeat Voldemort without him, so if you think I'm ashamed of him, you can stuff it, Boot.”

 

Where the hell did _that_ just come from? Harry stamped down this new, strange desire to defend the man's reputation.

 

“Look, I'm sorry Terry. Never mind. I don't mean to snap at you. You're right, it _is_ pretty weird. But there's a lot of stuff you don't know about him.”

 

Terry smiled nervously, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

 

“I, er, I didn't mean that you should be ashamed of him, Harry. Just... you always seemed to really hate him, is all. I mean, a lot of people did. Don't think he was ever anyone's favorite teacher, 'cept maybe some of the Slytherins... Blimey, you really do look a bit like him now.”

 

Harry looked past Terry to the Great Hall. This conversation was a waste of time. He didn't know why he even cared what Terry thought anyway. The Ravenclaw boy had been a member of the D.A. and fought in the last battle with him, but they'd never exactly been close friends.

 

A group of fifth years filed out of the Great Hall, stopping and looking at Harry in a way that reminded him nastily of his second year when everyone had thought he'd opened the Chamber of Secrets. Harry gave Terry one last parting glance and pushed past the goggling fifth years.

 

He made his way across the Great Hall, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed him. Snape was not at the staff table, but Professor McGonagall was seated in her usual place next to the empty Headmaster's seat. Once he reached her, though, he found himself struggling for words. Why did he come back here?

 

“You asked me last week to return later, Professor. Um, well, I'm here.”

 

-

 

Harry stood behind McGonagall as they stopped in front of the gargoyle guarding the Headmaster's office. He felt like a young student again, being brought to Albus Dumbledore to explain some serious infraction.

 

McGonagall paused and turned back to him without giving the password.

 

“Harry...”

 

She looked at him, her face kind but worried. She lifted a hand and brought it briefly under his chin, a thumb tracing over his jaw.

 

“I want you to understand something, Harry. Severus...”

 

She sighed, hesitating again. Harry waited patiently this time, his temper and annoyance thankfully dormant at the moment, having already expended itself on Terry Boot and his other former classmates downstairs.

 

“You need to understand that he is... damaged... in a way. And I do not just mean his recent difficulties from the snake's venom. He may never be able to... Well, what I mean to say is, if he does not behave himself tonight, please do not take it too personally?”

 

“Yea... I think I do actually understand that.”

 

He felt, perhaps, that he should have understood it years before. At the very least since that last disastrous Occlumency lesson with the pensieve during his fifth year. It wouldn't have changed anything but it might have made some things easier to cope with, maybe.

 

McGonagall watched him for a moment more, then nodded sharply.

 

“I will give the two of you some privacy, then. I am afraid he has very little energy, still, so do not be too long if you can help it. I will be in my own office if you would like somebody to talk to, later. You are welcome to borrow a bed in Gryffindor tower tonight, if you wish to stay.”

 

Harry smiled at her. She turned back to the gargoyle and gave it the password before walking off to leave him to his fate.

 

“ _Cuckoo's Nest”_

 

Harry tried to collect his thoughts as the spiral staircase raised him up to the door. He swallowed thickly and brought his hand up. He shut his eyes and knocked on the door sharply, twice.

 

Perhaps he wasn't in. Maybe he'd gone up to his rooms to rest. Maybe he'd left. Maybe—

 

“Come in.”

 

He pushed the door open and stepped through.

 

-

 

Minerva had spent much of the afternoon trying to badger him into taking meals in the Great Hall again, but he saw no point. There was only a little over a month and a half left of the term, and most of the remaining students would be leaving immediately after their exam results were posted. He saw no use in humiliating himself in front of even a small crowd of students and the rest of the staff. He'd gotten better at making his way through meals, but still ended up spilling or dropping things with greater frequency than he cared to admit. He did not have much appetite lately, anyway.

 

Minerva had managed to convince Horace Slughorn to come back, at least to the end of the term. He'd agreed to get the last of his students through O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s but they would have to hire another Potions Master before September. And, probably, another D.A.D.A. Instructor along with Muggle Studies, not that anyone would miss the Carrows in the slightest.

 

Snape tried not to think about his wand stashed away in a sleeve pocket, taunting him. Filius had, as Minerva promised, gone back to the Shrieking Shack to search for it. It had still been there, his old, loyal blackthorn-and-phoenix-feather wand stuck fast to the floor in a pool of his own dried blood. Filius had cleaned it and kept it hidden for him while the Ministry dithered over his fate. He felt a surge of gratitude to the diminutive charms professor, although it remained to be seen whether he'd ever make any real use of the wand again.

 

The nerve potion that St. Mungos sent over daily calmed the tremors somewhat, but they always returned in force before the next dose. The thought of trying to teach Defense, standing in front of a classroom of young students, where just one errant, unintended flick could—

 

They might not even want him to stay on as Headmaster next year. He'd leave the post without a shred of regret, anyway. He was hardly up to the task and had never wanted the position. Of course, he'd never wanted to teach, either. But where could he even go? He could not brew when he couldn't even hold a knife straight or stir a cauldron without sloshing it everywhere. He had an account at Gringotts where he'd scrimped and saved as much of his teacher's salary over the years as he could spare, but it was hardly limitless and the thought of eventually having to live off the charity of others stuck in his craw.

 

Severus leaned over his desk, resting heavily on his elbows. He still struggled to think of it that way, even though the year was nearly over. It was Albus Dumbledore's desk. He was just sitting at it, for now.

 

A sharp rapping on the door pulled him out of his thoughts. Probably Minerva checking up on him, again. The woman had turned into a veritable mother hen, constantly hovering over him since he'd been dragged out of that shack and back into a life he never asked for. Well, if he didn't let her in, she'd probably just sic Pomfrey on him, later.

 

“Come in.”

 

The stride of the footsteps that walked up to his desk was unfamiliar. He looked up, ready to send off whoever had interrupted him, but the cutting remark died on his lips.

 

-

 

They had been staring at each other in silence for over a minute now. It was unbelievable, really. He'd seen the grainy photograph in the newspaper, taken from some distance. He'd tossed it in the fire without giving it further thought.

 

Now he sat looking at himself, his own face but twenty years younger with some of the edges rounded off, and Lily's soft, sad green eyes peering at him through crooked, round-framed glasses. The boy did not speak but waited, apparently, for him to make some sort of move first.

 

“Potter.”

 

A line appeared between the boy's brows, but only for the briefest moment.

 

“Professor.”

 

Severus forced himself to sit back and sit up straight. He pulled his shaking hands into his lap, hiding them beneath the desk.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

The boy quirked an eyebrow at him in an unsettlingly familiar expression. He did not reply immediately, so Severus repeated the question, his tone rather less neutral this time.

 

“ _Why_ are you _here_?”

 

-

 

Harry didn't know quite what he felt when he walked through the door, finding the man he'd sought out slumped over his desk, dark oily hair trailing over a piece of parchment as he read something.

 

The man raised his head and froze as fast as if Harry had cast _petrificus totalis_. He stared at Harry, lips slightly parted. His breath stirred a strand of hair hanging in front of his face and a near-constant tremor in his hands could be seen in a slight movement of his robes despite them being hidden under the desk, but otherwise Severus Snape might as well have been a statue.

 

Harry stood patiently, waiting for him to say something. _Anything_ . He felt his own pulse beating at his temples; he held his breath, waiting. _Just shout, already_ , he thought. _Throw something if you need to, I don't even care_. Anything but this dreadful silence.

 

“Potter.”

 

Harry let out the breath he'd been holding. As greetings go, it was as bland as you please, revealing nothing of the roiling in the mind he could just almost see behind the man's black eyes, glinting in the light of a candle on the desk and the fire in the hearth. How could he have ever thought them to look dead and empty?

 

“Professor.”

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Harry stared at the headmaster. At Snape. At his father. How could he even ask that? How could he not know?

 

“ _Why_ are you _here_?”

 

Why, indeed?

 

“I just... I needed to talk to you.”

 

Whatever spell had been holding back Severus Snape was broken, now.

 

“You needed to talk. Is that it? Well, then _talk_ , and stop wasting my time.”

 

Harry felt like he'd just been slapped, but pushed the feeling aside. _I'm not fifteen anymore, he can't hurt me like this_ , he reminded himself. _They're just words._

 

 _He's afraid of me._ The thought came from nowhere, but he suddenly knew it to be true. Severus Snape feared what he represented, what his presence – his existence meant. _Are you that terrified of the thought that there might have been, might_ be _someone who does_ not _hate you?_

 

He returned the man's hard stare, refusing to be cowed.

 

“I wanted to thank you, sir. For... everything. For keeping me alive all this time. For not lying to me.”

 

The man's look, if anything, hardened further.

 

“Duly noted, Potter. If that is all—“

 

Harry could not quite prevent his expression showing his disbelief at this utterly obstinate man before him. In reply all he got was Snape's trademark sneering, that lip curling up at one side like he'd smelled something foul. _There's a face that needs a jolly good slap_ , he thought. He settled for voicing his irritation instead.

 

“Do you not care _at all_? They all know about it now, so there's no point in pretending—“

 

Snape stood suddenly, the heavy chair behind him scratching loudly across the stone floor. He leaned over the desk, thrusting his face forward.

 

“It means _nothing_ , Potter! I have _done_ what I aimed to do! _You_ are alive, Voldemort is _dead_ , and _my_ task is complete. You are not a child any longer who needs my protection. Whatever it is you think I owe you, the answer is _no_. Now _get out of my sight!_ ”

 

Harry kept himself steady throughout the man's outburst, ignoring the heat of his breath and the drop of saliva that landed on his shirt. Snape did not immediately return to his seat when he finished, continuing to breathe heavily, his face contorted with rage or pain or some mixture of both.

 

Harry suddenly felt terribly sad, for some reason.

 

He stepped back slightly and saw that the man was shaking more violently now, his weight barely borne on his large, spider-like hands splayed over the desk, a vein on the side of his neck prominent under the pink, web-like scarring that began somewhere beneath his collar. He was briefly afraid that Snape might faint, but the man merely slumped back into his seat and stared down at some middle point on the desk, the wild energy of the previous moment gone.

 

“Just _leave_ , Potter.”

 

He sounded almost pleading, now. Harry shook his head gently, shoving his hands into his pockets and shifting his weight to one foot where he stood.

 

“You keep calling me that. _Potter._ Like you don't know it's a lie.”

 

The hawk-like gaze bore into his eyes. He refused to flinch. It was possible the man was trying to Legilimize him on the sly, but Harry didn't care. He pushed his own feelings deliberately forward, daring the man to acknowledge him.

 

The sneer returned but a hint of doubt muted its efficacy.

 

“Well, then, _Potter_ , what _should_ I call you? Do you really expect me to believe you are going to happily skip off to the Ministry in the morning and file papers to have your name changed? You think you can get my attention with some cheap stunt like that? Don't make me—”

 

Harry rolled his eyes, knowing it would only further annoy Snape but not quite able to stop himself.

 

“No, I don't think I shall. But it hardly matters. It's just a name.”

 

“Oh, you _would_ say something like that. Sentimental as ever, I see. Names have _power_. They can open doors, or close them. Of course if you'd ever paid the slightest attention in your years at this school you might have learned something, but I guess you always were too busy showing off, just like—”

 

Harry turned his own now also rather hawk-like gaze back upon Snape, staring at him down the thin line of his own long nose.

 

“Just like _what_? Are you really going to sit here, now, and accuse me of being like James Potter? He died when I was still in nappies. Hardly enough time to pick up any of his habits, wouldn't you say, _father_?”

 

Harry knew he'd hit a nerve when he saw the vein jumping in the man's forehead as he ground his teeth. Snape stood again, regaining the energy of before in his apoplexy, drawing himself up. His greater height towered over Harry still, but Harry did not flinch. Snape's voice began low and dangerous but gained volume as his outrage built up a head of steam.

 

“You are not a student here any longer, Potter, and you have absolutely no right to come waltzing in here demanding my time. If I see you set one foot on the grounds of Hogwarts again without expressed invitation I will have you thrown out! GET OUT. _NOW!_ ”

 

Harry stood his ground through Snape's tirade and simply nodded at the end, turning on his heel and marching out through the door.

 

After reaching the bottom of the spiral staircase, he walked back to the doors of the castle without stopping, without acknowledging the greetings of former classmates, without hesitation. He crossed the grounds without glancing at the black lake, or the forbidden forest, or Hagrid's rebuilt hut. He walked through the gate and on into Hogsmeade without a single glance back.

 

Only when he'd sat down in the Three Broomsticks did he realize he still hadn't asked Professor McGonagall about Lupin and Tonks, or if the Ministry had retrieved Voldemort's remains yet. He swore under his breath and ordered something rather stronger than butterbeer for once in his life.

 

-

 

Minerva flipped back through the stack of her seventh years' transfiguration essays. They were disappointing, but she found it hard to be angry with them, given the year they'd had. It was a miracle any of them had returned after the Easter holidays. She hoped some of the others might come back in the autumn and complete their schooling, but did not hold out too much hope. She'd put up with the crowding happily, though.

 

She looked over at an old dusty German cuckoo clock on the wall, charmed never to need winding. It had belonged to her father many years ago, and she had brought it with her. She should probably get up and go check up on her errant children. Not her students, but Severus Snape and Harry Potter. There was something else she held out little hope for.

 

Harry, bless him, might be willing to forgive quite a lot, in the end. He had his mother's kind heart underneath it all. But Severus...

 

She'd extended an invitation to Harry to visit her in her office if he needed to talk, but couldn't imagine whatever conversation he might have had with Severus going on this long.

 

“Hm, I do wonder if they've killed each other yet.”

 

Minerva put the essays to one side and hesitated for a moment. She knew Severus was getting annoyed with her “hovering” as he had put it, but he'd just have to get used to it, perhaps. Albus was no longer here to curb the worst of his self-destructive tendencies and somebody had to do the job. She hardly had a line of volunteers queuing up for the task, although Poppy seemed to genuinely care about his welfare.

 

The castle was quiet tonight. It was not past curfew, yet, but there were no groups of students milling about, or making detours on their way back from the library. She hoped things would finally be back to normal next year, or she might not be able to stand it. She didn't think the school's reputation was ruined permanently, but once students had taken months or even a full year off, it could be difficult to coax them back into an academic routine, especially if they'd passed the normal age of graduation. She feared another “lost generation” from this second war, but did not know how to fix it.

 

Minerva gave the gargoyle the ridiculous password Severus had set again and traveled up to the door. No voices could be heard from the other side, so Harry must have left already.

 

She could go right in, she knew, as the Deputy Headmistress, but gave him the courtesy of knocking first. He did not answer. She gave a second knock and mentally counted to ten before opening the door anyway.

 

He was slumped over with his face buried in his arms and his hair splayed out like the tentacles of a sad octopus around him.

 

“I suppose I can assume, then, that things went poorly with Harry?”

 

Well, at least that got his attention. His head snapped up and he bared his teeth at her.

 

“ _You_ sent him up here?”

 

“Well what do you expect, Severus? Of course I let him come to speak to you, as you clearly were content to ignore his existence indefinitely otherwise.”

 

Minerva ignored the inkwell he threw just inches off past the side of her head, paying no attention to it as it smashed on the wall behind her, splattering ink and chips of glass over the stone, although a few of the portraits shifted and snuffled in their sleep and one managed a “well, _really_ ” before going back to snoozing. After all, if he'd really intended to hit his mark, she'd have had no hope of dodging it in time.

 

“I do not want him here. He is not welcome and I've informed him of such, he is to be thrown out if he comes back uninvited again and I will thank you not to encourage him.”

 

“As a matter of fact, Severus, he _was_ invited here. By me _._ I asked him last week to return at his earliest convenience. I had a few things to discuss with him, although I suppose now I should have talked to him before bringing him up here, but I did not realize you had intended to be so utterly puerile about this whole thing. Telling him he could not even _visit_? Really, Severus—“

 

“I would remind you, Minerva, that however I came to be in this position, I am still the headmaster and as such, it is my right and privilege to control who has access to this school and its grounds. He is neither student nor staff at Hogwarts and has no right, whatsoever, to just come and go as he pleases!”

 

Now he was up and pacing back and forth behind the desk and chair, his hair flipping wildly around his face as he gesticulated.

 

“Oh but then, I suppose it shouldn't surprise me, he's always been so _fond_ of taking liberties. You and Dumbledore always took a lax hand with him regarding rules, letting him do whatever he pleased. Can't deny blessed saint Potter any little thing now, can we? After all, he killed Voldemort and now we should all be kissing his—”

 

Minerva strode across the room and put herself directly his path, grasping him by the arms with both hands. “ENOUGH, Severus! Have you _completely_ lost your mind? What in Merlin's name is wrong with you!?”

 

Severus was halted in his path by her presence. He had stopped mere inches from barreling right into her and now looked down at her with a wild expression, as though he'd just realized she was in the room. He was breathing as though he'd just run a mile. As she stood staring at him, he began leaning sideways, the tremors that had briefly stopped in his rage returning.

 

Minerva put herself underneath his weight, pulling his arm across her shoulders and maneuvering the large man awkwardly back to his chair.

 

He slumped forward like a puppet who's strings had been suddenly cut and was now back the way he'd been when she'd walked into the room, hiding his face against the desk between his hair and the crook of an arm.

 

Minerva hovered a chair around the desk to sit beside him. After a moment's hesitation she placed one hand upon his back, moving it in slow circles, trying to pay no mind to the now ever-present trembling of his body. If he noticed her admittedly maudlin gesture at all, he ignored her.

 

 _You really are a miserable git_. The sad thought occurred to her that he didn't have any clue how to deal with Harry at all, and had reverted to his old habit of spitting insults perhaps merely to have something to say. He didn't even have the absurd comfort of blaming Harry for James Potter anymore.

 

He was utterly exhausted, as well, she knew. Smethwyck had repeatedly assured her that Nagini's venom was wholly gone from his body, but he seemed terribly tired much of the time. She'd found him just like this more than once over the last couple of days, passed out or nearly so over some or other bit of paperwork. How he'd manage the following year... she had a feeling that she'd be doing most of the duties of Headmaster, if he remained at all.

 

Several minutes later his breathing slowed and evened out and she thought he'd perhaps fallen asleep. She moved her hand up to press at the tense, hard knots at the back of his neck. He shifted slightly in his sleep but did not wake. He was a complete wreck, really. And she had no idea how to help him.

 

“I am sorry, Severus. I thought if the two of you could just speak to each other... well, I don't know what I thought.”

 

-

 

How dare he. How dare he still walk _free_ . How dare he still wander the halls of that school around _children_ . How dare he have a _son_ . How dare he have _that_ son! How dare he still _live at all_! An “ex” Death Eater? No such thing.

 

The newspapers curled up and turned to ash in the fireplace.

 


	12. Chapter 12

WEDNESDAY, 11 MAY

 

Cheerful morning sunlight streamed across the room, warming his face. He grabbed the duvet and pulled it over his head, groaning.

 

A mountain troll had been tap-dancing on his head last night, and stuffed cotton in his brain before it left. Or so he felt. He probably should have stopped after the third or so glass, but having never made any real attempt at getting drunk before, maybe he'd... underestimated.

 

At least he hadn't thrown up. Madame Rosmerta had been sympathetic the night before, shuffling him upstairs and decanting him into a bed when he'd clearly had (more than) enough, but he didn't think she'd appreciate The Boy Who Lived decorating the floor of the Three Broomstick's guest rooms.

 

“Oh _god_... I'm never touching firewhisky again as long as I live.”

 

-

 

An hour or so later, he was at least upright and somewhat mobile, although his head still pounded fiercely. His glasses and wand had been placed neatly on the bedside table and his boots left near the door. It only took him a couple of tries to get the shoes onto the correct feet and his glasses on as straight as they ever were these days.

 

He wandered down the narrow, uneven staircase and found the innkeeper cleaning and straightening mugs and bottles behind the bar. He managed to carefully balance himself on a stool, leaning over the bar on his elbows.

 

Madame Rosemerta reached into a cabinet and pulled three small glass bottles out, setting them on the counter. She grabbed a pint glass and filled it with water, then uncorked the potions, letting a few drops of each splash into the glass. It turned a muddy brown color at first, then a deep maroon, and finally an alarming fluorescent orange. She set it in front of Harry without a word and turned back to her chores.

 

“On the house, Mr Potter.”

 

He squinted into the eye-searing depths of the liquid, fighting the nausea that rose up in his throat and obeyed. The pain in his head lifted a few moments later, although he still felt like a large merino sheep had taken the place of his brain.

 

“Two galleons and three sickles for the room, though, if you please.”

 

Harry groped around in his pocket and produced the coins.

 

“A young lady came by looking for you earlier this morning. Pretty. Red hair.”

 

Harry rubbed his sore eyes, which still felt full of grit.

 

“That'll be Ginny, probably.”

 

“Weasley? Hm, yes, I thought I recognized her. Been a while. I told her I'd send you along later.”

 

Harry slumped over, leaning his head on the weathered wood. He heard footsteps coming down the stairwell and across the room. Coins jangled on the bar next to him. “Ta,” said Rosmerta.

 

The footsteps began moving away, then paused.

 

“Izzat Harry Potter?”

 

“Just you move along, Albert.”

 

“Eh, sure, sure. Guess I'd be in a pisser of a mood meself, if I'da just found out, eh...”

 

The footsteps finally went on their way and the bell over the door signaled his exit. Harry lifted his head, glancing back toward the door. So much for his metamorphosis being a blessing in disguise... or any kind of disguise at all. _Damn that Rita Skeeter_.

 

Harry slid off the stool and pulled at his rumpled, slept-in clothing until it was somewhat straightened. He really probably should have gone straight back to the Burrow last night, but somehow the idea of having to talk, to answer questions...

 

They all just _cared_ so much. So much, in fact, that it almost burned, sometimes, in a way, like standing too close to a furnace, or trying to look into the sun. And then there were those times he felt like he was burning from the inside, because he cared so much too, and the heat of his own heart ate him up like a fire within.

 

Of course his _father_ hadn't cared at all.

 

Well, that's not entirely accurate, is it? He'd cared enough to shout a load of nonsense and insults and all but chuck Harry out on his ear and tell him not to let the door hit him in the arse. You don't get _that_ angry about something you simply don't care at all about, do you? Harry's head started to ache all over again.

 

“Feel free to use the floo if you need to, dear.”

 

Madame Rosemerta turned and disappeared back into the kitchens or somewhere. Ginny had probably already returned home and informed her mother that he wasn't dead, but he still felt like he ought to head back soon and make his apologies.

 

-

 

Snape sat at the Headmaster's place at the staff table, despite all his earlier objections. If nothing else, it would shut Minerva up about it and gain him some peace. He touched neither food nor drink, not trusting his unsteady hands with an audience, even in the morning directly after his dose of nerve potion. He looked out across the small crowd of students clustered, as they now apparently preferred, in two mixed groups at the ends of the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw tables, all past notions of house loyalties and divisions discarded.

 

Horace mentioned something in passing earlier about Slytherin's dormitory being more or less empty at the moment, with the handful of remaining Slytherins mostly sleeping in abandoned beds in Ravenclaw's tower or Hufflepuff's basement. They were avoiding their common room even during the day. When Horace had asked some of them about it, they'd complained of their old rooms feeling haunted in a way that had nothing to do with the Bloody Baron.

 

Horace had informed the other house heads of his students' self-made alternative arrangements and they'd collectively decided to allow it, for the moment. Come September if the behavior continued, they'd have to intervene, but with most of the students already gone (home, or in some cases, to tragically early graves), it didn't really harm anything.

 

Shattered stones and broken statues were easily mended; the torched Quidditch pitch would be rebuilt before September to look as though nothing had happened. Severus watched them, talking still in hushed tones to one another, picking at their food. A few had books or notes out, revising as they swallowed their breakfast without tasting it. Even those students who had not directly witnessed their friends falling, nor even much participated in the battle, looked as haunted as his old refuge in the dungeons now, apparently, felt.

 

Minerva refilled her tea and leaned back in her seat beside him.

 

“It will get better, Severus. Give it time.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“The summer holiday is coming up soon. I think some time away from here will help them all get used to things.”

 

He did not share her optimism, but did not have the energy to argue.

 

“I suppose you might need to get used to a few things, yourself.”

 

He did not deign to answer that.

 

“Honestly, Severus, you could have at least attempted to talk to the boy last night. And by talking, I don't mean _shouting_.”

 

“I have nothing to say to that... _runt_ of a boy.”

 

Minerva choked on her tea, stifling a laugh.

 

“'Runt' now, is it? That's a new one, and not a very creative one I must say. I'm disappointed, you're losing your touch, Severus.”

 

Feeling trapped, he picked up a piece of bread and slowly tore it into pieces, needing some sort of activity to dispel some of the restless energy that itched under his skin.

 

“Even his mother was taller at seventeen.”

 

“I hardly see how it matters, but for what it is worth, I suppose you may be right.” Minerva paused to sip at her tea.

 

He knew it was a petty thing to fixate on, but it suddenly bothered him, and for no reason. He didn't even care about the brat, why did it annoy him all of a sudden that this boy who apparently shared his blood barely came past his chin? It was like finding a loose thread begging to be pulled.

 

Minerva set her teacup back in its saucer and rubbed at her bottom lip with the tip of an index finger, considering her former student. “He has always been among the shortest of his class, even compared to the girls. I remember his Sorting, he was the shortest first-year in the whole batch that year, and rather thin... I _told_ Albus those Muggles were the worst sort... I know now that he had a reason for leaving the poor child there, but I've never stopped regretting it. I don't think they even bothered to feed him properly, to be frank; it's clearly stunted his growth.”

 

Severus pushed away the small pile of savaged breadcrumbs he'd made and tried not to think about all those flashes of memory that he had so easily plundered from the boy's soft mind during those failed Occlumency lessons. The aggressive bulldog egged on by an aunt, the overweight and overbearing cousin, Lily's harridan of a sister wielding a frying pan that was barely dodged, a door closing on somewhere small and tight and dark, like a closet or broom cupboard... They'd been meaningless, just scraps of childhood memories, disconnected events that signified nothing in the life of a spoiled, nasty little boy who had been just like his spoiled, nasty fa...

 

He shook his head, banishing the thoughts. If he could just last through the end of term, he could put all of this behind him, maybe forever.

 

-

 

It was nearly lunchtime when Harry returned to the Burrow, slipping in with his tail between his legs and begging pardon. Mrs. Weasley didn't lay into him like he'd expected her to, which just made him feel even more guilty for making her worry all night.

 

He sat at the table between Ginny and her mother and ate his lunch in near-silence, still feeling fuzzy-headed and tired. George and Ron had returned to Diagon Alley to work on the Wheezes shop that morning and Percy and Mr Weasley were both at work at the Ministry.

 

“I suppose you made a visit to Hogwarts last night, then?”

 

Harry nodded, taking another bite of his bacon sandwich to avoid having to elaborate.

 

“Didn't go too well, I suppose? Just keep trying, he's bound to come round eventually.”

 

Harry finished chewing and washed it down with his pumpkin juice, rubbing at his temple as whatever Madame Rosemerta had given him began wearing off, his headache returning somewhat.

 

“Well I might run into him in Hogsmeade someday I suppose.”

 

Mrs Weasley set her own sandwich down instead of taking another bite.

 

“I'm sure you can catch him at Hogwarts at least one more time before the term is over?”

 

Harry laughed humorlessly

 

“He's banned me from the grounds. Says I'm not a student anymore and have no right to be there.”

 

“He did what—? That miserable little... Hmph. I'll just have to have a talk with him.”

 

Mrs Weasley tore at her sandwich like a tiger. Harry smiled at the thought of Mrs Weasley having a go at Severus Snape, a mental image of the tall, thin man backed into a corner by the short, plump witch. After all, even Bellatrix Lestrange had been no match for her.

 

He laughed, giving Ginny a knowing look. She smiled in return, but he turned back to Mrs Weasley and shook his head.

 

“I, er... appreciate the offer, Mrs Weasley. But, um, I think I'd better just deal with him on my own.”

 

“Are you sure, dear? Well he is _your_ father, I suppose, not that he seems to realize it. Honestly, though, who wouldn't be thrilled to pieces to have you for a son? He's just an ungrateful wretch, that man!”

 

Harry blushed to the tips of his ears.

 

-

 

Harry sat on the wall in the back garden watching the frogs again. He and Ginny had de-gnomed the garden earlier for lack of anything better to do, and half of them had already sneaked back in, their potato-like heads occasionally peeking out of the shrubbery at him, as if to taunt him.

 

He was waiting for Mr. Weasley to return from work. He'd promised to ask around at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement about their plans for maybe relaxing the requirements for the training program for new Aurors in the fall.

 

If they didn't waive the requirement for N.E.W.T.s he wasn't sure what he would do. Snape had made it abundantly clear that he wasn't welcome at Hogwarts any longer. He supposed if he tried to return as a student, the man wouldn't actually bar him from doing so, as it would require a lot of messy paperwork and explanation to the board of governors, but that didn't mean he couldn't make Harry's life a hell for the duration.

 

Maybe he could just study on his own and sit the exams without going back? Ginny would probably be willing to owl him copies of her notes. Hermione might do also, but more likely she'd just insist he come back with her. And then, he didn't know if they allowed just anyone to take them. Maybe you _had_ to be a student. Or maybe Snape would quit.

 

The back door swung open and Ginny glanced around the yard til she sighted him. “Harry, dad's home!”

 

-

 

“Well, Harry, you'll be happy to know I ran into Gawain Robards himself, he's standing in for head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for now, you know.”

 

Finally, some news he actually _wanted_ to hear.

 

“So what did he say?”

 

“Eh, well, he wouldn't exactly commit to anything, but—“

 

Harry deflated slightly.

 

“Of course, I shouldn't have expected them to bend the rules, wouldn't be fair I guess...”

 

“Now, Harry, he didn't rule it out, you know. I think they just haven't made a decision yet, but the fact that they're even considering it at all probably means they will. Everything is still sort of a mess, to be honest. I think they're a bit busy lately, er, cleaning house as it were. They finally arrested Dolores Umbridge yesterday, did you know? She seemed genuinely surprised, although I don't know why, given her involvement with... well, you know.”

 

“Can't say I feel sorry for her. D'you really think they'll let me in?”

 

Mr Weasley smiled and sat down, finally, in the living room. Harry sat down across from him.

 

“Well, do you?”

 

He shrugged as Mrs Weasley came in, leaning over to kiss her husband and sitting beside him on the sofa.

 

“Harry, I really can't see them refusing you anything at this point, within reason. Although I'm not sure it's a good idea for you to just skip your final year of school. Nobody blames you, of course. This last year... well. Don't you want to return to Hogwarts? I always got the impression you considered it your home, I know you didn't much like living with your aunt and uncle...”

 

Ginny returned with a pot of tea and mugs for everyone and Harry distracted himself with that for a moment, trying to think of a way to explain without sounding pathetic.

 

“I _did_ , but...”

 

Harry drank the tea Ginny had brought. It tasted like something herbal rather than the usual sort and he sniffed at it, delaying more.

 

“I think I've sort of outgrown it, I guess? I can't imagine, after everything, going back to being a student and being told what to do all the time.”

 

Mr Weasley looked at him in an appraising manner.

 

“Harry, you do realize that if you go into training as an Auror, you'll spend quite a lot of time being told what to do? And the consequences of disobeying are rather different when you're an adult, I'm afraid. It's not going to be scrubbing out cauldrons when you slip up anymore. Do you think you can handle that?”

 

Harry took a gulp of the herbal tea. Hibiscus and something else. Lemongrass or verbena, maybe.

 

“Yeah, I guess I'll have to. But that's different... somehow. I guess going from hunting horcruxes and Voldemort to hunting other dark wizards just makes more sense to me than going from all that back to worrying about dodging Peeves and Filch if I feel like taking a walk after curfew, if that makes sense?”

 

Mr Weasley smiled at him, nodding. He also felt that being confined in the same place as Snape was possibly the most unappealing idea he could think of right now, but decided not to mention it. Ginny was watching him, but her expression was odd and he couldn't quite make out her mood.

 

Mrs Weasley refilled Harry's mug. “Harry, I do hope you don't feel you're too old to enjoy yourself anymore? I do remember being seventeen, believe it or not. I know you want to hurry along, but don't wish your life away. Time has a way of getting ahead of you on its own, you know.”

 

Mr Weasley set his mug aside, thankfully changing the subject.

 

“Well, it's going to be a little while before the Ministry makes up its mind about the Auror training program. I don't suppose you have any other plans for this summer?”

 

Harry stared into his mug, watching a couple stray bits of herb floating about. Trelawny would probably use them to predict his doom (again).

 

“Er, not really. I guess I could help George and Ron out at Wheezes. And I probably should start looking for a flat somewhere.”

 

Mrs Weasley smiled and patted his knee.

  
“I'm sure George wouldn't mind a bit of help, but you needn't rush out the door. We don't mind you staying on for a while, just 'til you sort out your plans and get your feet on the ground, of course.”

 

-

 

 

SUNDAY, 28 JUNE

 

Severus chucked the last of his personal effects into a wizardspace-charmed bag without ceremony. He took one last walk through the private rooms he'd occupied for nearly a year now. They had never felt like his, though. The rooms still felt like Albus Dumbledore, even _smelled_ like Albus Dumbledore.

 

He couldn't wait to see the back of it.

 

Not that he relished returning to the old house in Cokeworth, filled up to the rafters with old books and bad memories. He ought to sell the place and rent a flat somewhere, just make a clean break of it, but he'd yet to make any long-term decisions about his future and it seemed imprudent to offload what little real property he possessed. _We must ever be practical, of course, no matter_ how _uncomfortable; after all we've made our bed to sleep in_ .. _. oh sweet Merlin, I'm turning into my mother..._

 

He'd completed as much of the necessary end-of-term paperwork as he could manage since seeing the last of the students off on the Express on Friday evening and had packed the rest. It's not as though he wouldn't have time, now.

 

No more searing pain waking him and sending him apparating into the night on some stomach-turning errand. Now if he could just escape before _she_ caught up to him...

 

He came down the spiral staircase into the Headmaster's office and, of course, she was there, standing between him and the tin of floo powder on the mantel.

 

“Severus, we really do need to talk before you swan off into the blue.”

 

“I've already said everything I intend to, Minerva.”

 

“You really have improved significantly over the last month, Severus, I don't see any Earthly reason why you couldn't return in September—“

 

“Because, Minerva, you and I both know this school would be better served with _you_ in this position; there are still numerous families that do not relish the idea of sending their precious spawn to an institution where a _Death Eater_ is still running the joint. They have _not_ forgotten that I was put in this position through unscrupulous means, and I can hardly blame them for their perfectly reasonable objections.”

 

“Oh, honestly, Severus, it was _one_ howler. That hardly counts as 'numerous' by any stretch of the imagination!”

 

“So only _one_ woman had the balls to stand up to me in a semi-public fashion! She no doubt has plenty of support from more prudent corners. I do not doubt for a moment that there are plenty who think I am just _itching_ to take up where Voldemort left off, whatever the Ministry has decided. Shacklebolt is well liked, but his favor does not cover _all_ sins.”

 

Minerva stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head at him in that obstinate way he knew meant he would not be getting away until she'd said her piece.

 

“Since when have _you_ ever cared a fig about public opinion, Severus Snape?”

 

“Since it is negatively affecting the ability of this school to carry out its function, which is to ensure that Wizarding Britain isn't churning out wizards and witches that are _completely_ ignorant. During the war, and while I was merely a teacher under Albus Dumbledore's eye, certain allowances could be made, but now? You know I am right, Minerva, I am a distinct liability here and you are all _vastly_ better off with me _elsewhere_.”

 

“You are running away, Severus. Don't pretend otherwise, I am neither stupid nor blind as you seem to think I am!”

 

Severus narrowed his eyes at the witch, and lifted his hands, which still trembled.

 

“ _Improvement_ is not a _cure_ , Minerva. If nothing else, I tire easily, still. And despite your feeble attempts at misdirection, I know _exactly_ how much of my duties as Headmaster you have taken upon yourself these last weeks. I am simply not fit for the job, and that is the end of the matter.”

 

“Then come back and teach again, Severus. If you don't think potions suits you, we still need someone for the Defense position.”

 

“Oh, so I can misfire hexes at students instead? One poorly-timed spasm and you'll be scraping some unfortunate Hufflepuff off the walls, and you know it.”

 

Minerva huffed at him but her posture slackened and he knew he'd won.

 

“It's not September yet, Severus. You've been steadily regaining your strength, there's no reason to believe you won't continue to heal. Just promise me that you will _think_ about it? We can discuss it again in August.”

 

“Fine, Minerva, I will _think_ about it. Now will you step aside, _please_? I'd like to get home before the shops close, at least, or I will have nothing to eat in the morning.”

 

She looked ready to relent, but then apparently changed her mind.

 

“One last thing, Severus. Have you given any more thought to speaking to Harry again?”

 

Now he sneered for real. The woman was relentless!

 

“No, I most certainly have _not_.”

 

“Severus, he is your _son_ and you have known this for nearly two months, now! How can you just go on pretending you don't?!”

 

“I am not _pretending_ anything, Minerva. There is simply nothing left to be said between us, regardless of any happenstance of shared blood, and you damned well know it. He's not a child in need of shelter any longer, and if he does by some chance come into such need, I have no doubt there will be a very long line of volunteers that he would much prefer anyhow. He's practically a _Weasley_ already, and I daresay he's far happier with that arrangement than he would with being a _Snape_.”

 

He pushed his way around Minerva this time to grab a handful of floo powder while she groped for some sort of response.

 

He threw the powder into the fire and shouted “Number Two, Spinner's End” and green fire filled the fireplace.

 

“He's better off without me, Minerva, and we all know it.”

 

He stepped into the wall of green and disappeared.

 

-

 

Minerva stared into the hearth as the green faded and the flames died down to a gentle crackling.

 

“I don't know that he is, Severus, and _you_ most certainly are not better off without _him_ ,” she said to the empty space he'd recently vacated.

 

She glanced up at the portrait of Albus, who was sitting quietly in his frame.

 

“I suppose I'll be sitting in that chair come September? I hope I can do it justice.”

 

“You'll make a fine Headmistress, Minerva, I have no doubt. But I do not think this school has seen the last of Severus Snape.”

 

“I wish I had your confidence, but I do not see how I could possibly convince him. He's simply too stubborn to listen to reason!”

 

She wandered over to the desk and slumped into the chair, looking about the familiar room that would soon be hers, unless something drastically changed.

 

“He does not see his own worth, Albus, not where it matters. I don't think he ever has. For much of his life, I fear very few ever have, other than yourself, perhaps. He was my student for seven years, and a colleague for many more than that, and I certainly had not—not until I stuck my head into that thrice-damned pensieve last month. If only he weren't such a bloody pissant half the time...”

 

“Do not indulge in too much self-flagellation, Minerva. I had not spared him much thought, either, when he was a student here. I recognized his brilliant mind, perhaps, but in the end he was just one more troubled Slytherin that I could not keep away from a dangerous path. When he returned, I saw only an opportunity to make use of him; understanding came much later. Too much later, really. But in the end he made his own choices, and he has accepted all of the consequences with surprisingly few complaints, all considered. He has certainly never expected pity, and I would not indulge in too much of _that_ , either – I assure you he will not thank you for it.”

 

Minerva stood and straightened her robes.

 

“Oh, I am sure you are right, Albus. As usual. It is really quite annoying, you know. Well, I have a few things to finish up myself.”

 

With one last glance across the room, she strode through the door and down the spiral steps.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

MONDAY, 29 JUNE

 

Harry sat back behind the till with a foot propped on the counter, flipping through a Quidditch supply catalog someone had left on a table at a teashop down the street that morning. Summer had arrived in earnest and the simmering heat seemed to slow the pace of life to something like dripping treacle.

 

He'd just cast yet more cooling charms over the joke sweets in the window display to keep them from melting. The canary creams were particularly bad about turning into an amorphous, sludgy mass within their wrappers under the midday sun, which resulted in their effect becoming more gruesome than amusing, and an enormous, half-squashed canary head was not something he really wanted to see again. But business was slow at the moment which left him with little to pass the time. Ron and George had left to meet with a potential wholesaler somewhere in Muggle London and Harry had volunteered to keep watch over the shop in their absence.

 

Occasionally a child would come barreling through the door, dragging reticent parents behind. Harry did his best to direct the youngest customers away from from the more... specialist... items that were piled up on the back shelves, keeping them in the sunnier parts of the shop near the front, where there was plenty of mischief but little real danger to be found. It wasn't how George ran things, but while Harry was in charge, he'd do it his own way.

 

The current trio, two older teenage girls and a boy who looked to be about seven or eight years of age, were wandering through the aisles without purpose or aim. Over the last month, Harry had learned to tell actual customers from idle browsers, and this trio was definitely the latter. If they had any money, they did not seem in a hurry to be parted from it. At least only a few people seemed to recognize him on sight these days, despite his picture turning up in the Daily Prophet gossip column with some regularity, generally pasted next to vague speculation about his career plans or love life.

 

He knew Rita Skeeter was still out there, plying her trade, but she'd moved on to hounding members of the Ministry of Magic and other poor souls who crossed her path that she could tar with accusations of colluding with the Death Eaters before Voldemort's fall. Most of her victims were, at worst, people who had simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but that never stopped her, of course. Shacklebolt had seen to cleaning out the Ministry within weeks of the battle at Hogwarts, and if any of Voldemort's sympathizers still remained, they had enough sense to keep shut up about their involvement and out of the way.

 

The heatwave-induced lassitude of the season seemed to subdue most potential trouble-makers among the wizards and witches of Britain, and that had to stick in Skeeter's craw. For his part, Harry thought that no news was very good news indeed.

 

Everything in the shop had been put under anti-theft charms before they'd reopened, so Harry went back to flipping through pages of broomstick polish and repair kits. He was starting to miss his Firebolt, and Quidditch. Tossing the dented quaffle around on an antiquated Shooting Star in the Weasleys' back garden simply wasn't the same as being high above a real pitch, waiting for that flash of gold.

 

Harry scratched at his neck as drying sweat made him itch, even with his long hair tied back. He really needed to see about getting it cut, as it was nearly past his shoulders at this point, but every time he thought about it, memories rose up of his Aunt Petunia practically sitting on him while she hacked his hair down to the scalp with blunt scissors dug out of some drawer, sometimes to the point of leaving him scratched and bleeding, while he cried and begged for her to stop. He tried not to think about the fact that it probably greatly increased his resemblance to Snape, but as long as he continued to wash it every morning to keep it from getting greasy, it couldn't be _too_ bad, could it? At least the insane rate of its growth seemed to finally have slowed down to something within the realm of _normal_ , having finished rebounding against whatever his mother's charm had done.

 

He'd sent cooling charms in nearly every direction of the shop at least once in the last hour, but nothing seemed to put too much of a dent in the cloying heat that had descended over the whole of London. At least he'd finally managed to shoot down the fly that had been buzzing in the windows for over an hour.

 

Mr Weasley was probably getting fed up with him forever asking after the Auror training program. He'd yet to get a straight answer. They'd be taking applicants in August but Harry had no idea if there would be any point in trying, yet. He'd either have to apply to the program, or return to Hogwarts.

 

 _If_ he could return to Hogwarts. Did they let students return after a whole missed year? It would feel strange being in the same year as Ginny, he thought, but he certainly wouldn't _mind_ being in classes with her. What other option would he have, though? He didn't mind sitting behind a shop till for a few weeks to tide over the summer, but he couldn't spend the rest of his life doing this.

 

If he couldn't get into the Auror training program immediately, then he needed to get his N.E.W.T.s and apply next year, there was no viable third option he could see.

 

Harry tossed the catalog aside and watched the trio file back out the door without making any purchase (as he'd predicted), the brass bell above the door ringing tinnily. Another opportunistic fly buzzed in before the door shut behind them, making a circle around his head before repeatedly bouncing itself against the windows.

 

-

 

MONDAY, 13 JULY

 

He'd fallen into a sort of habit, now, rising not long after dawn and sitting with a pot of tea in the dilapidated kitchen while staring out of the window at nothing until the pot was empty.

 

Cokeworth had never been an exciting place, after all. It had been a dingy working-class mill town in his youth and its fortunes had diminished even further in the intervening years. The textile mills and warehouses along the oily, foul-smelling river had been shuttered, their windows broken out or boarded up. Their cement-gray and brick-red edifices were covered in artless graffiti and the surroundings strewn with broken glass and litter by the comings and goings of local Muggle youths and vagrants. A few were mere brick or cinder block shells, having burned out (not always entirely accidentally) and been left to ruin by absent owners and apathetic civic officials.

 

The local primary school he had attended himself as a child along with the offspring of many of his father's mill coworkers stood a few blocks away, but had been sitting empty for years now. Its grounds and play yard were overgrown with weeds and those few children still living in the vicinity were bussed across town following consolidation some time in the mid-80's. It was the kind of place that did not need dementors to deprive it of a sense of hope; a shifting economy under the pressure of increasing globalization and cheaper overseas manufacturing had sucked the life and soul out of the community as assuredly as any abomination that wizards might have dreamed up.

 

He remembered the neighborhood of his youth well enough. Among the Muggles, those who could survive long enough to scrape through a few exams and get out left for Birmingham or London, or literally anywhere else at the first opportunity and few ever returned. The few children he'd grown up in the company of had either moved on or been pulled under by an unforgiving life. Many were probably in prison, or worse. Those who remained were mostly living on the dole and the rest of the neighborhood were pensioners, quietly living out the gray monotony of their twilight years on fixed incomes in the same post-war homes they had lived in for fifty or sixty years, holding their breath waiting on the next appearance of grown children and grandchildren who rarely visited.

 

The entire place reeked of rooted poverty and a society's collective forgetfulness. It was exactly the sort of forgotten corner were one could quietly throw oneself away unnoticed. A fitting enough resting place for him, he thought; after all, wasn't there an old adage that you ended where you began? It had a certain poetic justice to it, perhaps.

 

He spent his days lost amongst his cramped bookshelves, trying to keep his mind and his unsteady hands occupied, lest they tear him apart completely. His own thoughts and memories surrounded him in the silence of the home on Spinner's End like a dense flock of angry crows, picking at the vestiges of his sanity and dignity.

 

Some part of him had died on the floor of the shack in Hogsmeade that night. He _should_ have died. He had long ago resigned himself to the knowledge that he would not survive the war. It was right that he should not outlive the Dark Lord and his assigned task. He knew his own sins. He had played his role as the spy, walking the high wire strung over the abyss between Voldemort and Albus Dumbledore. All knowing full well that it would be his final act in this life, he had sought only to put his heel into the head of the serpent, though it cost him his last breath. It would quite possibly be the only, solitary thing of worth he would ever accomplish in his life, and he now had nothing left to give.

 

The Dark Lord Voldemort. What would his life have been if that accursed being had never been born? For all his dabbling in hexes, he would not have been drawn into the world of the Death Eater. There would have been no prophecy. Lily would live still.

 

He wasn't a complete fool – she never would have loved him. Not like that, no matter what regrettable moment of weakness she might have had one night, so many years ago. There was a chance, though, that they might have remained friends.

 

Harry would have had a real family, and Severus and the rest of the world would never have known him to be anything but James Potter's spoiled son.

 

He dropped his book onto the water-ringed wood of the spindly side table, an old potions supply catalog propping up the short leg to stop it wobbling.

 

He couldn't properly brew, any longer, his recent abortive attempts had proved that beyond a doubt. His hands still shook too badly to handle the preparation of ingredients properly and he grew tired if he stood too long. At this point, Longbottom could produce better work, he thought bitterly.

 

Most disturbingly, he found his memory growing foggy at moments, his mind slipping. Had he just put in the lacewing flies or not? Entire minutes fled like morning dew in afternoon sunlight. Long-brew potions like Wolfsbane were absolutely out of the question. A missed ingredient or preparation step would result in something useless at best, and poisonous at worst. The mortgage was long since paid off, but his savings would not last forever, and what he would do with himself when they came to their end, he could not fathom.

 

At least he ate very little these days, as his appetite had not really recovered since the attack. Nothing smelled or tasted quite right anymore, either. Everything seemed to have a weirdly metallic tang to it, as though every mouthful were tainted with blood. He hadn't really noticed before, but without the distractions of Hogwarts, the changes in his body, both gross and subtle, where plain to him. On top of it all, he ached when the weather changed.

 

He was thirty-eight years old. He felt like an old man.

 

-

 

It was unconscionable. Her dearest Anthony, her son, her baby, the light of her life and the breath of her soul, was dead. _He_ was still alive. It didn't matter that he'd left, apparently. He was still out there somewhere, his heart beating away when it had no right. Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, no matter what he'd somehow convinced the Ministry or the newspapers of. There was no returning from that. And he must be made to know this.

 

-

 

The days bled from one into the other with little contrast between them. He helped mind the shop. He pestered Mr Weasley about the Ministry. He mucked about on broomsticks with Ron and George and Ginny. De-gnomed the garden and watched them file back in. He helped Mrs Weasley with chores about the house.

 

He'd taken to bringing back a bit of shopping as well. He made nothing of it, simply putting things into the cupboards without comment. He knew the Weasleys didn't resent him, but he couldn't stop feeling like a freeloader, and on people who could ill afford the extra mouth to feed, even with George once again bringing in a little bit from Wheezes. Business _was_ slow, though. It would pick up at the end of August as returning students stocked up to cart their wares back to Hogwarts and make Filch's life more interesting. At that point, George would probably move out and into a flat somewhere in London.

 

Harry was stuck in some sort of holding pattern. He was _bored_ , and as such, he was starting to brood over, well, _everything_. There wasn't enough to keep his mind busy and directed, and so it occupied itself by obsessing, apparently, over every bloody stupid thing he'd ever done.

 

And, worse, every bloody stupid thing he'd left _un_ done. Of which there were many. Unfinished business chewed at the back of his mind like an industrious beaver.

 

He'd written a few letters, trying out his barn owl, who still did not have a proper name, writing letters to friends and old classmates. He'd sent Professor McGonagall a rather rambling, pointless thing the week before, thanking her for everything she'd done for him and asking, in a somewhat roundabout way, if there was any chance at all that he'd be allowed back in September. He didn't want to just ask directly, in case she'd _expect_ his return, as it was really just a contingency plan. He'd sort of made it sound like he was asking for Hermione, though, which was at least believable, as he knew she really did want to finish properly.

 

He hadn't gotten an answer yet, so perhaps he'd been _too_ vague about it. Or maybe she'd just sent her reply to Hermione directly.

 

Hagrid had gotten a letter as well, although it was a very short thing, and rather casual, full of trivialities about his summer. He'd received an invitation to drop by for tea sometime in reply and Harry didn't have the heart to tell him that he'd been banned from the grounds at Hogwarts, and had not sent another letter yet.

 

He'd thought about sending a letter to Hermione, who was still in Australia, but thought that might kill his new owl, or at the very least leave him deprived of her services for weeks. Magic or not, it was still just a bird, and not a wandering albatross at that. He kept meaning to drop by the owl post in Diagon Alley and ask how long-distance letters were actually handled, but hadn't gotten around to it.

 

And then there was the last letter he'd written, then thrown out, then re-written and re-written. It was still half-finished and laying on his bed at the Burrow.

 

Maybe he should just go and face him like a man. McGonagall probably knew where he lived. She'd been pretty adamant about him talking to Snape, at least before they'd finally done it and Snape decided to start a shouting match with him instead of actually discussing anything.

 

If nothing else, he had questions he wanted answered, and Snape was the last one alive who could tell him many things.

 

 

-

 

He was being followed, he was certain. He had not seen nor heard anything, precisely, but he had not been a spy all those years for nothing.

 

He'd left the house mid-morning and walked several blocks down to a small grocery, as he usually did once or twice a week, and had picked up an unwelcome shadow on the walk home.

 

By the time he made his way back to his door, he was growing truly paranoid. This was a thoroughly Muggle neighborhood and rarely had any wizard other than himself ever set foot there, save Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange on that one fateful visit, or that blasted Pettigrew, whom Voldemort had sent to serve on him.

 

Excepting Malfoy, all of _them_ were dead.

 

He wouldn't put it past some Muggle youth to have a go at him, looking, perhaps, for an easy mark. His gait was somewhat unsteady these days, and while he kept his shaking hands thrust into his pockets as much as possible, he did occasionally have to venture out into the company of other human beings for the necessities of life.

 

Rarely was any Muggle capable of escaping his sight so thoroughly, though. It was as though this shadow of his were under an invisibility cloak.

 

_Potter._

 

Did the brat _never_ give up? He pulled open the door at Spinner's End and slammed it shut behind him. It only took him two tries with his shaking wand to accomplish the locking charm.

 

-

 

Annoyed, he shoved everything in the cabinets without paying much mind. How dare that whelp come here! And sneak around under that bloody cloak of James Potter's. So like him, really.

 

The hair suddenly stood at the back of his neck and he whipped around, his wand out in a flash as he caught the barest hint of movement in his peripheral vision. He could not hold the blackthorn wand steady, he knew, but he'd be damned if he just stood there and let the brat go unchallenged.

 

“Potter! If you have managed to get into this house by some miraculous bit of _dumb luck_ , I would implore you to show yourself _now_ , before I am forced to—”

 

“ _Crucio!_ ”

 

Pain encompassed his entire consciousness and being as he fell with all the grace of a sack of hammers to the kitchen floor. Some detached part of his brain that still functioned noted the voice that had spoken the Cruciatus curse was most certainly _not_ Harry's.

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

TUESDAY, 14 JULY

 

Harry picked up his mail from the kitchen table, his nameless owl perched on the back of a chair and staring at him expectantly. He thumbed through his letters while he wandered across the kitchen, finally opening a drawer and tossing an owl treat at the bird, who caught it and swallowed it whole.

 

He spied Mrs Weasley banishing weeds in the back garden through the window, but did not see Ginny about. Ron and George had stayed behind in the back room at Wheezes to work on some project that involved a lot of bangs and noxious lime-green smoke that made Harry cough violently.

 

He ripped open the first letter. Neville had finally replied to him, his letter talking about a trip to Germany with his grandmother. The letter was light and full of frivolous details of their itinerary. He seemed happy and, more than anything, like a normal seventeen year old. Harry tried not to feel envious of his old housemate.

 

He paused at the next letter. Professor McGonagall had wasted no time sending him a response this time.

 

-

 

_Dear Harry,_

 

_I am glad to hear from you and I hope this letter finds you in good spirits._

 

_Firstly, I want to let you know that I finally received a reply from Andromeda Tonks regarding her daughter and son-in-law. They were cremated shortly after the battle and their ashes interred in a very private and small ceremony. I know you would have wanted to be in attendance, but Andromeda explained why it was done secretively, primarily due to Remus Lupin's condition._

 

_Had too much attention been drawn beforehand, it might not have been possible for his remains to be placed next to his wife's, I am afraid. There are many unfortunate rumors about werewolves, false ones, that even their remains may spread contagion, even ashes. I hope you will be understanding about this and not hold ill will toward your godson's grandmother. The Black family have long used an old pureblood cemetery and her concerns are entirely valid – lycanthropy aside, they were both half-blood and that alone may have raised objections._

 

 _The other matter you had expressed concern about earlier has been dealt with as well. I passed your concerns to the Ministry when they came to retrieve Voldemort's remains. I do not know if they have followed your desires, but you may be able to find out from somebody at the Ministry later. I am sure Kingsly Shacklebolt would give_ _you_ _an answer should you write to him and ask. So far there has been no official announcement made on the matter. The newspapers, at least, seem to have forgotten the matter entirely, as I have not even seen rumors on the subject. I suspect it will be handled quietly, whatever they end up doing._

 

_As to your latest request - I admit I am not altogether certain it is a wise decision to attempt to visit Severus at his home, but I suppose you are old enough to make your own choices at this point. As you know now, he grew up in the same town as your mother and aunt. It is an old mill town called Cokeworth somewhere in the Midlands, and his home is on a street called Spinner's End. It is a thoroughly Muggle settlement and, I gather, not one of wealth or renown._

 

_You will probably need to consult a map to find it, and getting there will require Muggle transport, as there is no floo access that I know of, unless Severus has had his own home added to the network, although if he has it is probably protected for his own use only._

 

_I would caution against it, but if I know you at all, I know you will be thinking of it. If you must go by broom, at least have the sense to use that cloak of yours, or at least a concealment charm. I know you still wish to be an Auror, and a breach of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy will not work in your favor come August, especially if the Ministry's Aurors have to drop in to Obliviate a lot of Muggles due to an indiscretion. Neither will your father thank you for having attention drawn to his home._

 

_Speaking of Severus, I feel I should let you know that he has more or less resigned his position as Headmaster. I still hold out hope that he may be convinced to return to teach in September. I am not certain what his plans are otherwise and I fear he may not have bothered to make any. His mood is not exactly cheerful at the best of times, of course, but I must confess that he has been deeply unsettled since the end of the war, though one can hardly blame him._

 

_I have hesitated in making any attempt to check up on him, as he rarely reacts well to such overtures. If you are willing to take on the task, then I must admit I find myself somewhat relieved. If you find him in any sort of trouble or difficulty, however, I must ask you to let me know as soon as you can. Despite his insistence otherwise, he is an asset to Hogwarts and on a more personal level, I consider him a friend._

 

_Additionally, despite his earlier censure, you are welcome to visit Hogwarts at any time. Hagrid has asked after you several times now and I am certain he would not mind if you and your friends came by._

 

_Please Give my regards to the Weasleys and Ms Granger._

 

 

_Minerva McGonagall_

 

-

 

Harry read over the letter twice more, and then set it on the table in front of him, staring at it. The amount of affection hidden within it was practically gushing by McGonagall's usual standards. He'd never considered, really, that anyone much had ever cared about Snape, other than perhaps his mother Lily, when they were both still young enough to be innocent. Even Dumbledore had always seemed more concerned with the _use_ of him than with his wellbeing, insofar as he was not compromised in his position as the Order's spy.

 

Harry hadn't been prevaricating when he'd thanked the man, earlier. He'd meant it at the time, even if he hadn't really planned it beforehand. He'd had ample time to mull over the past in recent weeks and it was beginning to sink in just what the man had actually _done_.

 

He was the walking embodiment of both bitterness and self-denial, and yet he had been instrumental in deposing Voldemort and his lackeys. Harry never would have survived long enough, and never would have known what to do in the end, without him. The personal costs to the man, too, were beginning to dawn on him. He had handed his life over in its entirety into the hands of Albus Dumbledore when he'd confessed to telling Voldemort of the prophecy.

 

In a way, Snape's life had been more even more closely fettered than Harry's had, and it was no prophecy holding him there, only his own wounded conscience. He could have walked away from it at any time, though, gone back to Voldemort in earnest, or even fled as Igor Karkaroff had done. Unlike Karkaroff, he might have been clever enough not to be caught.

 

His poor temperament was somewhat easier to understand these days, although he still felt he also owed the man a hard slap or two for his sharp tongue along with gratitude.

 

He knew if he waited too long, he'd lose his nerve. Part of him wished, now, that he could have attended his seventh year at Hogwarts, if for nothing else, then to get his appartion license from the Ministry. He'd still been sixteen and thus ineligible when Ron and Hermione had attended the requisite course during their sixth year. McGonagall had both cautioned against a broom and suggested the invisibility cloak in one breath. He could borrow one of the old cleansweeps, perhaps – they weren't the fastest or most agile brooms but they were reliable. He just needed to find a map.

 

-

 

THURSDAY, 16 JULY

 

He did not know how much time had passed, but the sun had set and risen again, at least once. He was bound hand and foot not only magically but also with rough ropes that bit mercilessly into his wrists and ankles. He had not been gagged, but there was no need. Repeated applications of _Cruciatus_ had seen to his ability to speak; he'd screamed his throat raw. His wand had rolled away under a cabinet somewhere, apparently unnoticed by his attacker.

 

If any of his elderly neighbors heard, they did not care, although there was certainly nothing that Muggle police could accomplish against a raging witch. More likely, though, a silencing charm had been placed over the room, to prevent any unwanted interruptions.

 

The witch alternately sat before him, making an attempt at boring a hole into his head with her burning stare, or paced through his house muttering to herself, ripping books off shelves and tearing them apart or smashing random objects, occasionally stopping to turn to him and apply another curse or to physically strike at him. Usually it was _Cruciatus_ , but occasionally something more... creative. His clothes stuck to him where blood had dried and he'd suffered more than one bout of incontinence at this point. At least with his nose broken from an earlier kick, he could not particularly smell anything.

 

The woman had revealed nothing of her identity or her motive, although from her mutterings, he had gathered that she'd had a son, who had died during the attack on Hogwarts in May, and had laid blame squarely upon him.

 

Whatever improvements had been achieved with St. Mungo's nerve potions were now history. The full-body tremors he'd suffered in the days immediately following Nagini's envenomation were back in full force, and had the company of electric shock like pains shooting up his spine, courtesy of repeated use of _Cruciatus_.

 

The part of his mind that was not clouded over with pain and exhaustion noted that the witch never kept him under the _Cruciatus_ curse for very long, even if every second _felt_ like years. At one point in the long night, she'd grabbed him by his jaw and nearly drowned him with an _Auguamenti_ , although he'd managed to swallow enough of it, which had probably been her intention.

 

So, she would not kill him outright, then. She wanted him alive and suffering, then, at least until such time she tired of her vengeance.

 

-

 

FRIDAY, 17 JULY

 

It had been surprisingly difficult to find out where Cokeworth was actually located. He'd gone into London the day before and visited several Muggle bookstores and corner shops, and it had taken a while to even find a map that included it. A settlement of no wealth or renown, indeed. It barely registered at all, apparently. He'd finally found a detailed road map of the region that had it listed, a tiny black dot next to a blue line representing some minor river.

 

Mrs Weasley had packed up a sandwich as a snack for him and given him a tight hug when he'd informed her of where he was going. Ron and George had expressed their affection for him by calling him nutters and wishing him luck in not being hexed six ways from Sunday. George, at least, had lent him a broom compass.

 

In the end, he'd folded up his invisibility cloak and shoved it in a pocket, using a concealment charm instead. The thought of flying that distance underneath the cloak was unappealing, given that the rising heat and humidity of the day already had him breaking out in sweat before mid-morning.

 

He could stay fairly high up for most of the distance, and pull the cloak over himself as he began his descent near the mill town of his mother's youth (and his aunt's, but he didn't care much to think about her at all).

 

It wasn't a bad day to fly, in the end. There were a few fair-weather clouds but mostly the sky was a clear, vivid blue and rivers flashed like threads of silver below where the water reflected the sunlight.

 

He would stop and pull the map out, gripping it in the stiff breeze and balancing on his broom. Translating the criss-crossing lines of the map to the actual roads below him was somewhat tricky, particularly where there were a lot of overhanging trees obscuring the view. The map did not include much in the way of landmarks beyond rivers and larger tributaries but finally he turned the map around and managed to find the line of the one along which Cokeworth lay.

 

Pulling the cloak out of his pocket and wrapping it around himself, pulling it partly under his bottom and gripping it against the broom handle to keep the wind from ripping it away, he began his descent into the gray, depressing rows of housing, trying to recall any landmarks from the memories in the pensieve that might lead him to a street sign marked Spinner's End. If he could just find that solitary, tall brick chimney....

 

-

 

_Why can't she just get on with it?_

 

If he could speak, he would beg Death to take him. It simply did not _matter_ , anymore. He'd outlived his purpose. Fate, it seemed, wanted to remind him of that. He should not have lived. He did not deserve to draw breath. And he would not for much longer, but his end would not come swiftly, would only be meted out in small increments of searing pain.

 

Consciousness came and went. He did not know what time it was, or what day, or where he was. Only the harrowed face of his tormenter remained, as she stood over him and filled him up with her pain.

 

-

 

Finally, Harry arrived. The street sign stood at an intersection like a dozen others nearby, the pole crooked and the paint faded and peeling, but there was Spinner's End. Rows of narrow brick houses in varying levels of dilapidation stood cheek-by-jowl on cramped lots. If there were living souls hidden within them, none emerged into the daylight.

 

Which was his, though? They scarcely varied from one to the next, all clearly constructed as a block project by some developer, decades ago, looking to cash in on a post-war manufacturing boom which had clearly gone bust in the intervening time.

 

He tried to imagine his mother living in a neighborhood like this, somewhere further up the main road, wandering down the riverbank on a summer's day, looking for some break in the gray monotony while her sister trailed behind her. One such day, she had met his father as he, too, had wandered away, trying to escape from a troubled home.

 

He tucked the broomstick up under the cloak, wandering down the street slowly, listening to the distant hiss of traffic. Nothing living moved, no birdsong twittered in the background. A light breeze stirred in the stale, hot air of late afternoon.

 

He reached the end of the road. The home to his left was marked Number One and was clearly abandoned, with boarded windows and a padlock on the door, probably placed by a mortgage bank some time ago after the owner had failed to make timely payment.

 

Directly ahead the street ended in a dead end, turning into a winding dirt path, once well-traveled but now overgrown from years of disuse. A few spindly trees stood about it. The sound of flowing water reached him from below a dip in the earth.

 

To his right, another indistinguishable house marked Number Two. The tiny garden was somewhat less overgrown and the door knob less tarnished, clearly handled on something like a regular basis. The solitary ground-level window facing the street was blocked by the back panel of a wooden shelf or cabinet, only a slight gap at the top showing the leather binding of old books stacked up to obscure the rest of the view.

 

He knew he'd reached his destination and pulled off the cloak. He hid his broom along the low fence surrounding the patch of weeds underneath the window and folded the cloak, stuffing it into a pocket.

 

He walked up to the door and hesitated. Instead of knocking, he stood and listened. He pressed his ear up to the peeling paint of the wood door, trying to suss out if Snape was even home. The thought occurred that he might be left waiting on the doorstep for quite some time, if the man had gone on some errand, or had left not intending to return at all.

 

He could hear movement within, but the cadence of the footfalls was off. He'd long memorized the stride and fall of Severus Snape's walk as he ducked and dodged the man on many a nightly wandering at Hogwarts.

 

He stood back for a moment, somewhat baffled. He couldn't imagine who might be visiting, other than himself or perhaps McGonagall, but she'd said quite plainly in her letter that she'd left off dropping by.

 

Harry almost knocked, but something stalled him again. He pressed his ear back to the door and could hear a muffled voice. It was most definitely a woman's but no one he recognized. She sounded... angry.

 

It receded and for a moment there was silence. Then, as though from a great distance, a hoarse, half-strangled scream.

 

-

 

“ _Alohomora_!”

 

He'd tried six times, now. He wracked his brain, trying to remember the more complicated unlocking charms he knew of, anything he'd ever heard of or witnessed Hermione use.

 

On the twelfth attempt, the bolt finally slipped from the doorjamb.

 


	15. Chapter 15

The first thing that hit him was a godawful stench of blood, stale urine, feces and vomit. He nearly added to the last item himself.

 

He pulled out his wand and stepped into the living room. The place looked like it had been hit by a small tornado. Shredded books were strewn over the threadbare carpet along with the smashed remnants of several pieces of furniture, including one nearly ceiling-high bookshelf that had been pulled down in its entirety.

 

He took his invisibility cloak back out of his pocket, realizing belatedly that he probably should have pulled it out before he'd ever entered the place.

 

A strange, animal-like keening noise emanated from a doorway down the hall from the living room.

 

“I do not think you have suffered nearly enough, Death Eater, but I grow tired.”

 

The woman's voice was rough, suffused more with pain than anger.

 

“ _You_ should have died, not my Anthony. He was an innocent, loving boy. Everyone who knew him loved him, and you _let_ him die! You let your Death Eaters have him! You were the headmaster, _you should have protected him_! I don't care what lies you told the Ministry, if they will not deliver justice, _I will_.”

 

Harry crept up to the doorway, his wand raised. A figure stood in the middle of the room, crooked and hunched, staring down at a lumpy mass of dark cloth surrounded by the filth he'd smelled earlier.

 

A thin, shaking hand raised a pale-colored wand, as if hesitating.

 

“ _Avada_ —“

 

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ”

 

By the time her wand reached his other hand, she was on him, flying at him as though possessed, screeching and clawing at his face, the cloak dislodged and tangled around his feet and tripping him over backwards

 

She grabbed his wrist, slamming his wand hand into the doorframe, trying to make him lose his grip. He cried out as she bit into his ear, knocking his glasses off and sending them tumbling back out into the hallway. Her fingernails tore at him, trying to gouge at his eyes, just as he managed to get his left hand beneath her and pushed up with his legs, levering the both of them over until he was above her, now holding her down beneath himself.

 

She began crying, screaming incoherently as tears flowed down into her tangled hair. Having finally wrenched his wand hand free, he aimed at her where she was pinned beneath his weight.

 

“ _Stupefy_!”

 

-

 

He dragged the woman's dead weight back out into the hallway and placed a binding curse on her as a precaution in case she woke. He retrieved his glasses and cloak before rushing back into the small kitchen.

 

He covered his mouth and nose with his shirt, trying not to give in to the urge to be sick and approached the unmoving black mass on the floor.

 

“Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead”

 

He took hold of an edge of fabric between thumb and forefinger, peeling it slowly aside, revealing the side of the man's face. It was blotched and bruised where capillaries had burst, but his eyes twitched beneath tightly closed lids, his lips parted in a pained grimace, revealing crooked teeth. He was curled into a tight ball, soiled clothing tangled around him.

 

Harry slowly let out a shuddering breath.

 

“ _Oh god_.”

 

What could he do? He was miles away from the nearest witch or wizard. He took his wand back out and banished the filth on the floor and on his clothes. It was largely unimportant, but he didn't quite know what else to do at the moment.

 

He placed a hand on the man's hunched shoulder. If anything, Snape merely curled into himself more tightly.

 

“Please, sir... please, tell me what to do... tell me what you need...”

 

Harry wiped his face with his sleeve, brushing away sweat and now tears. He felt a sense of hysteria creeping up on him and closed his eyes, pulling in several slow breaths and letting them out through his nose.

 

_Calm down. Do not panic. If you panic, he most certainly will die._

 

Some bloody great Auror he was going to turn out to be at this rate.

 

He'd finally screwed up the courage to come find his father and seek some answers, and now he would lose him. Harry knew he had no relationship with the man other than long years of mutual antagonism and his strange, unfaltering protection. Yet he suddenly could not stand the thought of watching him die like this, humiliated and helpless.

 

There was too much he wanted to know, too much he needed to ask.

 

Harry rummaged in a cabinet, finding a cup that looked more or less clean, and filled it with water at the sink. Harry set the cup down out of the way but within reach, and sat behind Snape with his back against the door of a lower cabinet.

 

Harry pulled at him, murmuring encouragement until the man finally slackened somewhat. Harry managed to get his hands under the man's arms and dragged him somewhat upright, leaning Snape's head against his chest and holding him in place with one arm while he reached for the cup. Snape began shivering in his grasp, though whether from cold or pain or some other damage, Harry did not know. His hands and legs still shook as they had done weeks ago at Hogwarts, but that was not surprising.

 

“Please, just.. for once in your life, don't fight me.”

 

Long minutes passed as he held the cup to the man's cracked lips. Bouts of harder shaking nearly dislodged him from Harry's grasp, but he held on to the larger man, shifting until he could get his arm entirely around the man's broader chest and stretching his legs out on either side of his torso, steadying him when he threatened to slip off to the side.

 

“Please... just drink it.”

 

-

 

The pain and noise and light of the world receded to some distant point as his mind retreated, burrowing deep into itself and floating away.

 

He could hear a voice, somewhere far away.

 

_...you let him die... ...you should have protected him...._

 

No, no, you have it wrong. He lived, he  _ lived _ . He was supposed to die, but the Dark Lord had failed, again! The child had triumphed beyond all wisdom and reckoning, released from the horcrux that had held him, and from the prophecy that had bound him.

 

_...if they will not deliver justice, I will..._

 

Something within him uncoiled, laying passive and receptive. He would walk into the arms of Death gladly. He had earned his reward.

 

The shadow and its burning magic moved away, suddenly, leaving him. A woman's scream. Something heavy shook the floor beneath him. Finally, silence.

 

He felt a presence standing over him, again, but not the same shadow as before. Its magic was far more familiar, a sense of warmth that surrounded him gently, not the searing heat of earlier.

 

_Please don't be dead, please don't be dead, please don't be dead_

 

Why? He was not afraid of death.

 

He cried out within his mind as he was pulled back into his body, the shocking pain returning. He could not cry out with his voice, neither could he free himself from the pain again, as he had before.

 

Hands pulled at him. They were gentle but oh, the  _ pain _ ... He forced his muscles to yield, as much as he could; the tension in them was nearly pulling his joints apart.

 

Warmth against his back, and a steady, if somewhat anxious heartbeat. A voice murmured something at him, breath against his face.

 

Something hard and cold pressed against his bottom lip, but he could not move any further as his entire tortured body rebelled against the control of his slipping mind, refusing to take orders.

 

-

 

The sunlight streaming in through the kitchen window was fading. The man in his arms was slowly, slowly unwinding from his paralysis.

 

It had taken over a half an hour, but he'd finally manged to tip some of the water into Snape's mouth, all the while praying that he'd swallow it and not choke. He'd refilled the cup with several  _ Aguamenti _ spells and given as much to Snape as he could manage to get down the man's throat.

 

He didn't know the first blasted thing about caring for somebody in this sort of condition. He knew there was the threat of something called shock, and that he needed to keep Snape warm, but beyond that?

 

He needed to go find help, somehow, but that would mean leaving. He was fairly certain the witch he'd stupefied and bound would not rise for at least a day, if not longer, given the fervor he'd put into the spells, but he did not want to risk her breaking free somehow and finishing Snape off while he was gone.

 

The Weasleys would wonder where he was when he didn't turn up for supper, right? They'd come to find him, wouldn't they? He'd showed Mr and Mrs Weasley the letter from McGonagall yesterday, but did they even know how to get here?

 

He was scratched and bruised and aching from his fight with the witch and with Snape's weight leaning against his chest, he began to feel like he suffocating. Harry thought he might have bruised a couple of ribs when he'd hit the floor and his wrist and elbow were turning an interesting shade of purple. The hard wood of the cabinet door and awkward position were not doing him any favors, either.

 

He refilled the cup once more, this time drinking it himself.

 

-

 

SATURDAY, 18 JULY

 

He was laying on his side on a hard wooden floor. His arms were wrapped around something yielding but heavy. His right hand was completely numb where it was pinned down.

 

It took a while for full consciousness to return to him, and when it did, it took several long moments for him to take stock of his condition. He ached terribly all over, and he most definitely had bruised some ribs and his head pounded. Thin false-dawn light very faintly illuminated the room.

 

Finally he remembered where he was, and why. He'd come seeking some sort of accord with the man he'd discovered to be his father. Instead, he'd had to break into Snape's home to disarm a strange witch who had apparently been hell-bent on torturing and then murdering him, apparently blaming him for the death of her son during the battle at Hogwarts.

 

_ Accord, indeed _ . He was halfway wrapped around the tall man, apparently having passed out at some point in the middle of the night and slipping downward under the greater weight of his burden. Snape was still unconscious, or seemed to be, his tremors mild and intermittent now, at least. He could not see the man's face from the awkward angle. 

 

Harry slowly extricated his arm from underneath him, trying not to aggravate any wounds that might be hidden or jostle him too much. Once free, pins-and-needles blossomed over it, taking the place of the weird rubbery feeling of before. He rubbed at it for several long minutes until normal feeling finally returned and stood up, several joints cracking in protest at the night spent on the floor.

 

He crouched down next to Snape, watching him breath for several minutes until he was sure the man wasn't in immediate danger of perishing. Snape's eyes briefly cracked open and he peered in incomprehension at Harry before shifting slightly. Harry took hold of his shoulder and eased him onto his back, unsure if moving him further was a good idea or not.

 

Harry drank directly from the kitchen tap in the way that got Ron shouted at back at the Burrow, easing the burning of his dry throat. He thought about trying to get Snape to drink more but the wary expression on the man's face as he watched Harry's movements gave him pause. If Snape reacted badly, if he panicked, Harry didn't know what that might do to his injuries.

 

Harry withdrew his wand and went into the hallway. The witch lay precisely where he'd left her, at least. He levitated her into the living room, dropping her without much care onto the ripped up upholstery of the ancient and uncomfortable-looking sofa.

 

Harry paused, a sound of several voices in the street coming in through the front door, which had been left ajar in his haste the day before. He waited, his wand out and ready, in case the witch had friends who had come after her.

 

-

 

“Not exactly a posh neighborhood, is it, Ron?”

 

“Hush, George, just because it's early doesn't mean there isn't anyone about!”

 

“Just a bunch of Muggles, though, eh, mum?”

 

Mr Weasley shot the elder son a warning look, and another at Ron just in case.

 

“This is their _home_ , boys. How would you like it someone said that about the Burrow?”

 

George snorted. “Well, you know I love the Burrow, but they'd sort of be right?”

 

Mrs Weasley shook her head at her son as she followed Professor McGonagall down the road.

 

“It's the last one on the row, I think,” she told them.

 

Ron rushed to catch up to his former Transfiguration professor.

 

“You don't _really_ think Snape's killed Harry, do you?”

 

“I rather doubt it, but obviously _something_ has gone awry; if nothing else he might have some idea where Harry's gotten to.”

 

-

 

“ _You don't really think Snape's killed Harry, do you?”_

 

“ _I rather doubt it, but obviously something has gone awry; if nothing else he might have some idea where Harry's gotten to.”_

 

Harry nearly wept with relief. They'd found him. He drew in several shuddering breaths and rushed into the cramped foyer to be greeted with the surprised faces of his friends

 

“Harry!”

 

Ron rushed ahead, but he paused as he took in Harry's disheveled state.

 

“Oy, you look _terrible_.”

 

He turned back toward the crowd behind him, laughing.

 

“Never mind, I think Harry's killed Snape instead!”

 

Harry grabbed Ron by the front of his shirt and dragged him over the threshold and into the house. Professor McGonagall and the rest of the Weasleys followed.

 

“I didn't kill him, but somebody _else_ nearly did.”

 

He pointed briefly at the prone figure on the torn sofa in the wrecked living room but did not pause. He rushed down the hallway back to the kitchen, coming to kneel beside Snape, who was still peering silently at the room through swollen eyelids, his breathing somewhat labored now. Harry grasped his robe at his shoulder, leaning over him as though he could make him stay alive through sheer will alone.

 

The rest of them crowded in after him.

 

“Merlin, Harry! What happened?”

 

He heard Professor McGonagall turning back to say something to Mr. Weasley out in the hallway.

 

-

 

It seemed like hours later when he finally heard the tell-tale pop of apparation. He recognized the voice of an Auror named Proudfoot, who had spoken to him to get several statements about the battle, and about Snape, not long after the defeat of Voldemort at Hogwarts. Two more pops and footsteps.

 

Someone came up behind him where he sat cross-legged on the floor next his father, now covered with a blanket with a heating charm and with a pillow that Mrs Weasley had found somewhere underneath his head. He was still in some sort of troubling state that was neither waking nor sleeping.

 

Harry recognized the insignia of St. Mungos on the witch's robes. She smiled at him in a way she probably thought was comforting and then turned her attention to Snape. Harry stood stiffly and moved away to give her room to work.

 

He spied a black object barely visible in the gap underneath the cabinet and bent to pick it up. It was Snape's wand. He turned it over in his hands, examining the carving of the handle and dark stained wood. It had an odd feel to it, as though it were appraising him while he appraised it. He got the sense that if he tried to cast with it, it may or may not be in the mood to cooperate with him, but there was a certain... sympathetic energy to it, for lack of a better term. Perhaps it recognized him, somehow.

 

He never really had understood how wands worked, exactly, or at least how they chose their owners, although Ollivander had attempted to explain. He thought of the elder wand, laying where he had returned it to Dumbledore's crypt on the grounds at Hogwarts. He did not regret relinquishing it but wondered if it felt the same, if “feel” was even a word that could apply. He put Snape's wand in his pocket for safekeeping. If nothing else, it would force him to speak to the man later to return it.

 

The healer's wand moved over Snape as she cast several diagnostic spells, one after the other with barely a pause in between. Professor McGonagall and Mrs Weasley appeared at the door from the hallway and Harry could see Ron standing close behind them.

 

“ _Cruciatus_ , repeatedly, although not in great duration at each occurrence. An inexperienced caster, probably. Cracked ribs, likely from a weakly cast bone-breaking curse. Blunt trauma from physical blows. Dehydration. Shock, although milder than I would have expected...”

 

She glanced at Harry as if studying him for a moment, then turned back to Snape, casting one more spell. She paused, mildly confused. “He also seems to be suffering from extensive nerve damage in his limbs, although I cannot ascertain the exact cause.”

 

McGonagall spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that did not match her worried expression. “Envenomation by a rather unusual snake kept by Voldemort. His hands shake badly and have done for weeks, although Smethwyck had sent regular nerve-strengthening potions over for him for a time, which seemed to be improving the matter. I do not know if he continued to take it after he left Hogwarts, but I suspect not. That is the only reason that horrible woman was able to get the better of him in the first place, I can assure you that.”

 

“Hm, I had heard about an experimental case involving cursed venom that was all the talk in the creature-induced injuries ward a few weeks ago, although I did not know this was the same man. Tough luck...” 

 

The healer turned back to her patient, pulling a potion bottle out of her robes and spelling its contents directly into Snape's stomach.

 

_ I really ought to learn that trick _ , Harry thought. The healer called after Proudfoot. The crowd at the door parted to let him pass.

 

“Well?”

 

“She had only the one wand that Harry took off her when he disarmed her, although we will need to hold off on trying _Prior Incantato_ until we get back to the Ministry, since the results will need to be documented. Savage has already taken her into custody.” 

 

The Auror looked down at Snape, shaking his head. “You really just can't catch a break, can you, Severus?”

 

He stood back as the healer conjured a stretcher. “Has anybody checked to see if there is a hearth connected to the floo network?”

 

McGonagall answered. “There's one in a bedroom upstairs, although I think you will only be able to leave through it. He has it warded to allow no one  _ in _ but himself.”

 

The healer nodded at her. “That will suffice. I would not want to make an attempt at apparition with him in this state. He's in for a stay in the spell damage ward back at the hospital, I'm afraid. Although I might drop in on Smethwyck later to see if he has any insight on how this current round of damage might interact with the preexisting issue.”

 

Harry followed the healer as she levitated Snape through the house, pushing his way past the Weasleys with an apologetic look. The healer seemed to notice him as she came into the bedroom upstairs with the floo.

 

“Mr Potter, is there something you need? I really do need to get him back to St. Mungos right away, if you don't mind.”

 

“Good. I'm coming with you.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

Harry hated this place. Despite a few curtains, there was no real privacy, for one. He had passed the residential ward on the way in, for another, and couldn't help but think about the Longbottoms. Would Snape be in the same state, when all was said and done?

 

The healer, whose name turned out to be Marissa Watkins, seemed to think his prognosis would not be so grim, although she did not go so far as to promise a full recovery, as she had never dealt with the after-effects of the venom of a snake like Nagini before.

 

Smethwyck dropped in and introduced himself to Harry, shaking his hand and spending several awkward moments congratulating him on his defeat of Voldemort.

 

“I suppose you're staying with him for a while, then? I do remember reading in the Prophet, although they've been known to get things wrong, er, you _are_ his son, right?”

 

Harry nodded, feeling less conflicted about that fact than he ever had before, somehow. He still had the man's wand in his pocket and took a moment to feel for it, confirming that it had not been lost.

 

A crowd of red hair appeared at the entrance to the ward as the Weasleys finally arrived. They must have stopped back by the Burrow, as Ginny was with them this time. They caught sight of Harry where he stood with Smethwyck and filed over, with Minerva McGonagall bringing up the rear.

 

“Well, we meet again, I suppose.”

 

McGonagall took Smethwyck's offered hand and shook it somewhat perfunctorily, a hard expression on her face. Harry got the feeling that she did not like him.

 

“Looking to get another paper out of the man, is it?”

 

Smethwyck blushed slightly and stepped back.

 

“Ah, no... Watkins called me up for a consultation. Worried about the interaction of the curses with the existing damage, you see.”

 

“Hm. Well, get to it, then.”

 

McGonagall stepped back and pulled a chair over from next to an empty bed, seating herself and crossing a leg over the other, as though she were planning on remaining for a time.

 

-

 

“Will you be okay here, Harry?

 

“Yea, I'm fine, Mrs Weasley.”

 

Ginny glanced back at him.

 

“I can stay tonight too, if you want?”

 

Harry smiled at her, appreciating the offer for what it was. Snape was hardly Ginny's favorite person, to say the least. Or anyone's, really. She was willing to stay for _Harry._

 

“No, I'll be fine, it's okay. You go with your family.”

 

George slapped him on the back.

 

“Harry, haven't you figured it out yet, you _are_ family.”

 

Harry looked down at Snape's prone, sleeping form and smiled ruefully.

 

“You sure you guys really want to claim me? You might get more than you bargained for...”

 

Ron looked down at Snape, shaking his head dramatically and gave a long-suffering sigh.

 

“We'll survive somehow... Well, probably.”

 

Mr Weasley had been in quiet conversation with McGonagall, but finally came over to join the rest, stopping to speak to Harry for a moment.

 

“Harry, I know you and Severus both have had a tough couple of days, but do take care of yourself too, alright? Firecall us if you need anything.”

 

“Yes, Mr Weasley.”

 

Mr Weasley gave one last, loaded glance back at McGonagall, who merely inclined her head in some sort of acknowledgment. With that, the Weasley clan filed out of the spell damage ward to return to the Burrow.

 

Harry dragged the chair that Mrs Weasley had vacated over to Snape's bed and flopped down heavily. He felt like he'd been dragged by a hippogriff himself, and a night spent sleeping on a kitchen floor had hardly been restful. He leaned his elbows on the edge of the bed and propped his head on his hands to rest his eyes for a moment.

 

-

 

SUNDAY, 19 JULY

 

Harry awoke suddenly to the feeling that he was being watched. How much time had passed, he did not know. There was a blanket draped over his shoulders and he was hunched over stiffly with his head buried in his arms and propped on something soft. The sound of someone breathing was mere inches away from his ear.

 

This was the second time he'd awoken in recent memory not knowing quite where he was, but his memory engaged a few moments later. He sat up stiffly, his battered body protesting at another night spent sleeping in a completely unnatural position.

 

He opened his bleary eyes and nearly fell out of his seat. Snape was not only awake, but staring at him in a rather unnerving fashion. It was not his usual glare, but something more raw.

 

Harry sat back in his seat, trying not to meet that strange gaze. He rolled and stretched his stiff neck, cringing at the loud cracking it produced. He pulled his blanket more tightly about himself, as though it could shield him.

 

McGonagall came up to stand beside him, a hand alighting softly on his shoulder. She looked down at Snape, not unkindly but with an unmistakable measure of annoyance.

 

“Well, Severus, I had hoped not to repeat this sort of situation quite so soon, but here we are again. Can you speak at all?”

 

Snape made no indication, positive or negative. He stared alternately at Harry and at McGonagall, his odd gaze slowly moving back and forth between the two of them, but he did not respond at all.

 

Harry flinched slightly in surprise as McGonagall took her hand off of his shoulder and brushed it over his hair, tucking a long dark strand behind his ear and carding through the length of it once or twice almost affectionately. He'd never known the woman to be so... demonstrative. He couldn't quite stop himself from blushing slightly, feeling the heat of it rising in his cheeks.

 

“Harry dropped by Cokeworth the day before yesterday to attempt to talk to you, again, despite your wretched behavior earlier. I imagine he was not expecting to have to save your life. He's not left your side once, since. You could at least say something to _him_ , you know.”

 

There was a slight twitch under Snape's left eye. McGonagall merely sighed and left to return to her seat a few feet away. Harry let his eye follow her, unwilling to endure Snape's staring again quite yet.

 

Harry shifted in his seat, uncomfortable in more ways than one. If he'd felt poorly the day before, his body now positively screamed its displeasure at him. He turned sideways, pushing against the backrest and slowly levering himself upright, refusing to look again at the man laid out on the bed.

 

He managed to get to his feet without embarrassing himself too badly, or at least he managed not to wince or cry out. He looked around the ward blearily. It was definitely early morning, which meant he had, indeed, spent the entire night hunched over next to Snape's pillow. It was a disconcerting thought.

 

He looked back at McGonagall, who sat thumbing a copy of the Daily Prophet. Blessedly, the headline had nothing to do with either him or Snape today, instead focusing on some sort of controversy over a new Wizengamot appointee whose name Harry had never heard before.

 

 _Thank Merlin for slow news days_ , he thought. He didn't think he could take another uproar over a nearly immortal dark wizard quite yet. Maybe in a few years, _after_ he'd completed his Auror training....

 

He shuffled his way over to the lifts, making his way to the visitors' tearoom on the floor above, detouring to the mens' toilets first.

 

He washed his face in the sink as best he could without proper soap and resorted to a freshening charm on his clothing with a sense of déjà vu . The weight of the extra wand in his sleeve pocket shifted against him, as though it were a living thing, and sought to remind him of its presence, impatient to be returned to its master.

 

“I'll give you back as soon as he's up and mobile, I promise. It's not like he can do anything right now... and why am I talking to ruddy wand?”

 

Harry rubbed at his tired eyes. He still hadn't gotten around to getting a new pair of glasses. Maybe there was a way to adjust them with a charm or something. Hermione would probably know. She was due to return from Australia with her parents soon. Maybe she and Ron would want to go out and do something with him on his birthday. And Ginny... Well, he could do with a drink (but _not_ firewhisky) and a relaxing evening with people who did not attempt to burn a hole through his head with their eyes.

 

He used the toilet and washed his hands before pausing in front of the small mirror above the sink again. The long hair _definitely_ made him look more like Snape, eyes and glasses excepted, and a couple days unwashed really drove the point home. He scratched at his scalp, the tacky, greasy feel of it irritating him intensely. How did the man just _ignore_ it for days on end?

 

The thought of getting a haircut still made his skin crawl, but he wished he had something to tie it back with, at least. No wonder the man was staring at him like he'd grown three extra heads. It was probably like looking into some kind of funhouse mirror.

 

-

 

He stopped by the visitors' tearoom and downed a few cups of weak tea and bolted a tasteless breakfast before taking the lift back down to the spell damage ward. He ran into Watkins as he walked through the doors and began to stiffly make his way back over to Snape.

 

The healer stopped and smiled at him crookedly. “You know I've been waiting nearly two days now for you to admit you're not in top shape yourself. Are you sure you don't want something done about all that bruising?”

 

Harry blinked at the healer. He'd been too distracted by the far more dire situation his father was in to give a great deal of thought to his own aches, but he really did feel quite miserable.

 

“Er, uh. Well, I wouldn't object to it, if you're offering.”

 

Watkins laughed and herded him across the room. He started to head back toward the seat he'd occupied earlier, but Watkins grabbed him by the arm (he managed not to wince too badly) and pulled him toward next bed over, which was currently unoccupied. Snape's head turned to stare at him across the gap, again. He was half tempted to grab the curtain in irritation and pull it across, but Watkins pushed him to sit on the bed before he could give in.

 

“Lose the shirt, if you don't mind.”

 

Harry gulped at her, hesitating. He wasn't ashamed of his body, exactly, having gotten over that notion in the Quidditch locker room years ago, but the weight of that stare across the way rendered him uncharacteristically shy. He glanced over at McGonagall as well, who merely gave him a bland look and went back to her newspaper, a quill in hand as she worked at the daily crossword. Watkins tapped an impatient foot, waving a jar of salve that she'd pulled out of a pocket.

 

Finally, Harry relented and began undoing buttons. He failed to stop the wincing as he pulled the shirt off. Watkins cocked an eyebrow at him and let out a low whistle as she walked a half-circle around him, then leaned slightly to get a look at his back.

 

“Hm, more than I'd expected by a long shot. How the hell have you been walking around like that for two days? I'd be complaining every other step.”

 

Harry shrugged at her, trying not think at all about the last two days.

 

“It's not as bad as it looks, probably. I've been hurt worse than this before and lived, anyway.”

 

He decided not to mention that he'd had his own experiences with the _Cruciatus_ curse in the past, among other things. His file in the hospital wing at Hogwarts had to be the thickest of his year, if Pomfrey had held onto it.

 

Watkins paused for a moment, then twisted the top of the jar open and began to deftly apply the salve over his bruises. It hurt less than he'd expected it to, as her fingers did not linger over any one spot for too long, or press too hard, at least, although she put a second, thicker layer over the darkest bruising on his ribs and at his wrist and elbow where he'd hit the floor the hardest when that witch had tackled him.

 

After about twenty minutes, she'd manged to cover the more colorful regions of his skin. She stood back and looked over him like a craftsman appraising a project. She then rubbed a bit more over the bite on his ear and the scratches around his face. Harry reached over for his shirt, glad to cover himself from the silent gaze a few feet away that never left him.

 

-

 

McGonagall left shortly before lunchtime, with a promise to return in the evening. Harry didn't know why he couldn't bring himself to leave as well. It's not as though he was _wanted_ here. Snape slept occasionally, and stared at him with that same unreadable expression when he was awake. Harry was starting to feel like that boa constrictor in the zoo that he'd accidentally set on his cousin that time, and was getting the same impulse to make a break for it.

 

Something held him back.

 

Giving in to his exhaustion after a while, he stretched out on the neighboring unoccupied bed and managed to nap for a few hours.

 

-

 

When he awoke it was mid-afternoon already, the light from the windows stretching long and thin across the ward. Watkins was bent over Snape, blessedly blocking the man's bizarre stare for once. Harry stretched, popping more joints but not so painfully this time. A bit of proper sleep on an actual mattress (even a sub-par one) had done him some good, apparently, although he still felt tired.

 

Harry slid off the bed and stood until the room stopped spinning. Oh, yea. He'd skipped lunch as well. Watkins turned from her patient to speak to Harry.

 

“Still a bit out of sorts, then?”

 

“Er, not really. Just stood too quickly. I think I slept through lunch...”

 

The healer turned back to Snape for a brief moment.

 

“Well, you can go upstairs and get something if you like, your father is fine for the moment where he is.”

 

He nodded and began to walk, but the healer stopped him as he passed her.

 

“Or you could go home for a while and eat something nice and get some real rest, you know. Things have settled down since we got most of the casualties from Hogwarts sorted out, so I don't think anyone will mind you borrowing an empty bed, but you'd feel a lot better after a night at home, I think.”

 

Harry was about to argue with her that he didn't really have a home of his own, anyway, and that the Weasleys probably deserved a few days' break from his squatting habits, but it felt disloyal to them to give voice to that thought to a near-stranger. They'd insisted again and again that he was welcome to stay on until he'd figured out something permanent.

 

That didn't mean he was quite ready to up and leave Snape to himself, though. He still wasn't quite sure what compelled him to stay. A strange fear, perhaps, that the man would find some way to leave on his own, before he was ready and... Harry had the nasty suspicion that he'd maybe not really tried all too hard to stop that witch from doing what she had done.

 

“I'll, uh, just go upstairs and get something.”

 

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

MONDAY, 20 JULY

 

He really needed to stop doing this.

 

He'd managed to fall asleep again in the same ridiculous fashion as he had the night before. Snape would probably say he'd lost his mind completely. Or would, if he were saying anything at all. But the jarring awakening he got from repeatedly finding himself sitting in a chair after having spent the night with his head propped three inches from the man's face was going to take years off his life, and possibly more out of his back, young as it was.

 

Those black eyes still stared at him. He didn't blink quite enough, either, which seemed to transform it from merely awkward to outright unnerving.

 

Snape began to shift and move where he lay, and Harry froze. One unsteady long-fingered hand uncurled from beneath the cover and came up, pinching a lock of Harry's hair between thumb and forefinger. Harry was afraid for a brief moment that he'd begin to pull it, but he merely rubbed at it for a moment, his eyes narrowing as though he were studying something complicated.

 

Finally, Snape let go of his hair. Harry began to sit more upright, but was stopped again as Snape drew a fingertip down the side of his face, beginning just at his ear and tracing his jawline down to his chin. He let his hand fall heavily to the bed and made an odd, soft sound in the back of his throat, but, disappointingly, did not speak.

 

McGonagall had returned the evening before and had spent over an hour sitting in the same chair Harry currently occupied, just talking to Snape. Harry had kept his distance and had not been able to make out exactly what the woman had said to him, but he was fairly certain that Snape had never responded.

 

Could he still speak, at all? It was not at all surprising to think he'd damaged his voice under the  _ Cruciatus _ curse, Harry knew full well what its effects were. But the healers here should have done something for him by now, surely?

 

-

 

Feeling restless by lunchtime, Harry wandered up to the visitors' teashop and grabbed a sandwich, taking it with him wrapped in paper rather than sitting at one of the small tables. He came back down the lift and wandered about, waving at a few other patients scattered about the ward.

 

He looked at the door to the residence wing and briefly considered dropping in to see if Lockhart's condition had changed at all in the last couple of years, but the thought depressed him. Even if Lockhart might have recognized the Harry Potter he'd known before, he surely would not now.

 

Neville's parents were still there also. Would he end up visiting his father like that, too? Dropping in every month or so and pocketing sweet wrappers from a man who did not really know who he was?

 

Snape's strange reaction that morning did not seem completely void of recognition, though. He'd been... sort of curious, or something, but not confused, Harry thought.

 

He caught sight of Watkins back at the main entrance to the spell damage ward. She was standing with another healer, the one named Smethwyck that McGonagall had seemed to dislike, discussing something. Smethwyck looked up and smiled wolfishly when he caught sight of Harry. Harry shivered slightly, not caring for the predatory expression. Watkins' smile was more genuine though, and she crooked a finger at him in summons.

 

“Harry, there you are! I had wanted to speak to you, actually. Smethwyck here thinks he might have a way to fix your father's nerve damage, along with the rest of his injuries, once and for all, but we'll need a bit of help from you.”

 

“Oh, uh... yea, I'll do... whatever it is.”

 

Smethwyck looked rather pleased, but Watkins's smile faltered slightly. She pulled at Harry's sleeve, moving them away from the door into an empty corner of the ward.

 

“Well, Harry, it's actually more than a _bit_ of help, in fact it's rather complicated. Smethwyck can explain the process. It's actually quite a lot to ask of you, I think, so I don't want you to feel pressured into this. We can begin the nerve potion again once his other injuries are healed, of course, and that will certainly help him over time—“

 

Smethwyck cut in, earning him a look from Watkins, which he did not seem to notice at all.

 

“Yes, yes, that's one option, and a very inadequate one. If he were going to fully respond to that treatment, he would have recovered before the end of June. I've been doing some research in the intervening time, though, and found something else. It's a rather obscure bit of magic, and somewhat dangerous, but I think in a controlled setting, the risks should be minimal.”

 

“Fine. What _is_ it?”

 

“Hm, I'm trying think of a way to explain. It's a kind of... sympathetic magic. But it requires the participation of somebody with a closely similar magical signature, which usually means a close relative. We'll have to double check that you're a match before we begin, but I'm fairly confident, although.. as far as I know, you are the only living family he has?”

 

Harry thought for a minute. He realized he did not actually  _ know _ in the slightest. Snape's parents had clearly vacated Spinner's End quite some time ago, but it struck him that he did not actually have any clue if they were alive or dead, or where they might be if they were still living. His father had been a Muggle and that was out of the question, anyhow. His mother? Who knew, except Snape himself, and he wasn't talking. Even Snape's memories had not shed any real light on his relationship with her, whatever it might have been. Harry knew literally nothing other than the fact that she was a pureblood witch, and that Snape's father had treated her abominably.

 

“Yes, as far as I know, I'm all he's got.”

 

Watkins smiled and reached over to squeeze his hand.

 

“You're a good son, I'm sure.”

 

Harry looked away from her, unable to respond. He'd come to accept that Snape was his father in the sense of being his sire, but he wasn't anyone's son at all, not in any way that  _ mattered _ . He'd not had a real father since the age of one, other than perhaps Mr Weasley. But if a blood kinship and magical similarity were all that was needed for this cure, he could hardly begrudge the man a bit of aid, after everything.

 

“Well, then what is this... cure?”

 

Smethwyck stepped closer to him slightly, as though trying to edge Watkins out of the way.

 

“In the simplest terms, the process is akin to siphoning off a bit of the donor's magic and more or less grafting it into another's, which can heal and strengthen the recipient's. I was successful in removing the cursed venom from your father back in May, but there was significant harm done to both his physical body and to his magic. Normally injuries like the physical damage to his nerves would heal on their own in a wizard, you know, unlike a Muggle. A witch or wizard's internal magical core is quite a powerful healer on its own. Much of what we do here is merely directing that force and focusing it.

 

“But for this to work, there must be a certain amount of similarity between the two magical signatures, or the recipient's magic may reject the other's entirely. Sort of like Muggles do with their donor blood transfusions, although the analogy is somewhat inadequate.”

 

Harry considered the concept. It seemed uncomfortably intimate, but sounded straightforward enough, at least on the surface.

 

“Is that all? Doesn't seem all that dramatic, though?”

 

Smethwyck fiddled with his clothing for a moment.

 

“Well, the risks to donor are more than what there would be simply removing a pint of blood, I'm afraid. There can be a sort of... reaction... if the transfer is not done properly or the similarity isn't great enough. It's also possible to take too much, in the end, if the attenuation isn't kept even by the casters. This hasn't been done at St. Mungos in about 150 years for a reason. I'm absolutely certain we can perform the spell without undue risk, but I will not say that it is _without_ risk entirely.

 

“Furthermore, you will need time to recover once it is done. You'll be confined to bed rest for a fortnight, at the least, as your magic replenishes itself, and we'll have to keep you here under observation for at least a week at first. There should be no lasting side effects in the long-term, although your magical signature may be... er, very slightly changed. This isn't harmful, per se, but it might confuse any existing magical contracts or spells that are keyed specifically to you.”

 

Harry was beginning to understand McGonagall's annoyance with this man. He was astoundingly obtuse for someone who was clearly very intelligent.

 

“What do you mean by ' _slightly changed_ ' exactly?”

 

Smethwyck paused for a moment, considering something. The door to the ward opened and someone stepped inside, but Harry didn't bother to look at the visitor.

 

“Well, the transfer involves a rather close intermingling of the two magical signatures. It requires that they are similar to one another to begin with, but in the end, apparently, they tend to resemble one another even more strongly than when they began. If you do not renew individual wards, for example, it's likely that you both will be able to access them equally, where they would have excluded one or the other of you before. I've even read of participants being able to use one another's wands like they were their own, afterward. It's a rather curious phenomenon, actually, quite fascinating...”

 

“What on Earth are you talking about now, Smethwyk?”

 

Harry nearly jumped at the sound of Professor McGonagall's sharp voice behind him.

 

-

 

Harry sat in the visitors' tearoom with his hands wrapped around a hot mug. McGonagall sat across from him, worry evident in the crease between her brows as she regarded him.

 

“Harry, I understand your desire to help Severus, it is perfectly natural, of course, to want to aid someone in dire need, but this is quite dangerous magic that Smethwyck is suggesting. I do not claim expertise, but I somewhat recall reading about something of the sort many years ago. There is good reason such spells are not often used.”

 

“I know, he said they could, er, take too much by accident, or something.”  


“Indeed! They could leave you no better than a squib! Or even possibly _kill_ you, Harry.”

 

Harry's knuckles turned white where he gripped the mug. He could see the man laying in the ward a floor below, in his mind's eye. He had walked out of Hogwarts after resigning at the end of June, apparently thinking himself too useless and unwanted to remain. What had he been doing since then? There was no evidence of anything in Spinner's End, although Harry had to admit the place had been turned upside down by the witch who attacked him, so who really knew.

 

Harry stared down into the hot chocolate that McGonagall had put in front of him earlier, as though the answers to his life might be hidden in its depths.

 

Did he really want to do this? What was Snape to him, really? A father? In blood, perhaps, but he knew that only mattered so much in the end. He'd built a family for himself elsewhere, among his friends at Hogwarts, among the encompassing love of the Weasleys. Even the woman sitting across from him, in a way. Was family just a matter of blood, then, or was it something else entirely?

 

James Potter had loved him, dearly. He could not deny that, whatever the circumstance of his birth had been. The man had died trying to protect him and his mother, laying his life down in front of Voldemort to buy the two of them the barest chance of escape. It had not saved Lily in the end, but that did not diminish the act.

 

Who is Severus Snape, then? An antagonist, for much of his life. He had dodged and ducked the man for six years at Hogwarts, and when he'd failed he'd spent many an evening scrubbing out cauldrons or writing snidely-worded lines while trying not to roll his eyes at the endless sarcasm and constant stream of childish insults.

 

What else, then? A counter-curse to keep him on a bucking broom. He'd misdirected Umbridge in her office and then rushed off to Grimmauld Place to check on a man he had loathed, all because Harry had been convinced Sirius was in mortal danger. A pity Harry had not trusted him back then, things might have ended very differently. And then, Snape had let everyone believe him a callous murderer for a year to complete a task laid before him by the very man who had commanded Snape to end his life, over much protest.

 

As a young man, he had dived into the dark arts and become a Death Eater, foolishly believing it would make him powerful, that he would not be that vulnerable child any longer, that it would protect him from pain. He had given Voldemort a piece of a prophecy, not knowing that it would get his lost friend killed. He spent the rest of his life paying for his mistake. And, in the end, he had given Harry what he'd needed to walk to his own death. Snape's life had been dedicated to keeping Lily's son alive for sixteen years, and he'd let it go in the end, somehow.

 

Who is Severus Snape? Harry realized he really had absolutely no idea, despite everything. None of the pieces fit together. It was like peering at a scene through a shattered window. Despite the risks, was he worth saving?

 

In the end, did any of it even matter? Snape was suffering and Harry was in a position to provide aid. Harry Potter could no more turn his back and walk away from someone who needed his help than he could reach into his chest and pluck his own heart out.

 

Harry gulped down the chocolate, no longer hot but tepid and almost sickeningly sweet.

 

-

 

TUESDAY, 21 JULY

 

“Harry, this really does sound _super_ dangerous, are you absolutely sure you want to go through with it?”

 

Harry sat at the kitchen table in the Burrow, having finally caved into both Professor McGonagall's and Watkins's repeated insistence that he should take a day or two to rest and think over his decision with a clearer head, although Smethwyck had been impatient to get on with it. Watkins had snatched the parchment with the consent statement out of the other healer's hand when he'd tried to get Harry to sign it immediately and Harry was definitely starting to understand why McGonagall had so little patience for him.

 

He had to admit, he did feel more like an actual human being after a couple hot meals of Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking and a night in a real bed.

 

“Ron, you know I have to at least _try_.”

 

“Listen mate, I know he's technically your father, but this is still _Snape_ we're talking about here, never mind your need to save everybody and their mother. I know what you told me earlier about all the stuff he did, and who knows, maybe he might be some kind of backwards hero, but he's still a _git_ and you could _die_! I mean, he'll probably get better anyway, eventually, at least a bit?”

 

“Ron, I just... “

 

Harry sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes. He really didn't want to sit here and argue with Ron over this. He wished Hermione were back from Australia already, as she was usually the one to put the brakes on this sort of thing before it really blew up.

 

As it was, it fell to Ginny to kick her brother under the table as he opened his mouth again to say something else.

 

“Ron, I swear sometimes you just don't know when to _shut up_. You already _know_ he's going to do it and you already know _why._ I mean what if it was one of us at St Mungo's right now? D'you think he wouldn't be doing the exact same thing?”

 

“Yea, but it's not one of us, and anyway, we're his _friends_ , Ginny. And he couldn't do it for one of us anyway, because he's not actually related to any of us, so it's not the same at _all_. Besides, _I'd_ never ask him to do something like that! It could _kill_ him, Ginny!”

 

“That's not the point, Ron and you know it. I mean, when the hell have you ever seen Harry just ignore _anybody_ who needed help? He'd spend the rest of his life just beating himself up over it! Is that what you want?”

  
Harry knew he was starting to blush as heat flushed over his face, all the way up to his ears. Leave it to Ginny to be so on the nose about it. Hermione had accused him more than once of having a “saving-people thing” and he'd long since stopped trying to deny it, but having it pointed out always made him feel weirdly exposed. Harry fidgeted, pushing loose hair behind his ear and trying not to look at either of them.

 

Mrs Weasley chose that moment to make an appearance and sat down beside Harry, pulling him into half a hug for a moment and thankfully ending the argument.

 

“Whatever you decide, Harry, you know we will support you.”

 

“I know you will, and... thanks, uh...”

 

Mrs Weasley leaned over, pressing a soft kiss to the side of his forehead.

 

“You've always been a brave one, Harry, I know things will work out.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

THURSDAY, 23 JULY

 

Harry spent the entire morning keeping himself distracted over packing a bag and nervously milling about the Burrow. He was trying to think about literally anything but what he would be doing that afternoon.

 

He'd told them all he didn't need them to come along, but Mrs Weasley insisted and he finally caved, not that his protests would do much good anyway. Mr Weasley had taken the day off from work and was sitting in the living room with Ginny while the both of them watched George lose rather spectacularly against Ron at wizard chess.

 

“Come along, we'd better floo over or Harry will be late.”

 

Mrs Weasley shooed her husband and children out of their seats, herding them all over to the hearth. She handed the canister of floo powder to Harry after the rest had gone through, taking a moment to speak to him without the audience.

 

“Harry, this is a really brave thing you are doing. I just don't know if you will get any thanks for it in the end.“

 

“I know that. I _know_ that. But I think I have to do it anyway. If I don't, I... I really will end up hating myself... He needs to be able to work, I think, or he's just going to sit there in that house in Cokeworth all alone and go mad, or something. He might do anyway, but I can't just walk off and leave him to destroy himself.”

 

Mrs Weasley pulled him into another tight hug and Harry squeezed back. He wished that this could be somebody else's responsibility, somebody else's problem. But in the end, it was his burden to take up or abandon entirely.

 

-

 

Harry pulled at the thin robe that the nurse had ordered him to change into behind a curtain. It was flimsy and did little to cover him and he felt naked. He listened to Smethwyck and Watkins explain the process to him one more time, trying not to look at the crowd of his friends seated a few feet away. His holly wand was stashed together side by side with Snape's blackthorn in an inner pocket of his bag, currently held for safekeeping in Ginny's lap.

 

He could feel Snape's silent gaze on him as well, but steadfastly refused to even glance in the man's direction. He wasn't sure if he was more grateful or more alarmed that he would be placed into a deep bewitched sleep during the actual transfer of his magical energy.

 

Finally, Smethwyck led him over to the side of Snape's bed, pushing him to sit on the edge of the mattress. The man turned his head slightly, still staring up at Harry. He looked almost frightened, Harry thought, which seemed like such an absurd notion that Harry nearly laughed.

 

Smethwyck reached over and removed Harry's glasses and held them out toward the crowd. Mr Weasley stepped forward and took custody of them, his now-blurred face smiling nervously at Harry as he retreated back to his place.

 

They had all been ordered earlier to remain at a distance and, above all else, not to attempt any sort of interference or intervention, or they'd all be ordered out and barred from the ward until everything was complete. Professor McGonagall had snorted derisively at the man, as though daring him to try it.

 

Smethwyck placed his wand at Harry's temple, as though he were preparing to extract memories for a pensieve. He met Harry's unfocused gaze and cast the first spell.

 

“ _Dormire_ ”

 

Harry began drifting sideways as his eyes closed of their own will. He felt himself being lifted and moved by several sets of hands and stretched out on his back on the bed against Snape's side, the fevered heat of his body like a furnace against the thin shrift Harry was dressed in.

 

Then, he felt nothing.

 

-

 

The waiting seemed _interminable_. It had been at least an hour, now.

 

Minerva nearly had to sit on her hands to keep from reaching for her wand. A crowd of witches and wizards surrounded the bed in a circle, murmured incantation rising and falling as their wands pointed down at their patients, raising eddies in the visible magic as it flowed like water. Smethwyck's wand was held higher above them, a streak of light like lightning flowing up and down into the center.

 

What started as a faint glow beginning just above the heart of each, slowly growing in size and intensity, now surrounded them both. And what had begun as two separate auras, with a distinct line between them, were now, finally, beginning to coalesce, like two soap bubbles merging into one.

 

The light around Harry had been nearly unbearable to look at, a piercing, clean white light, like the sun at noon. Severus's had been relatively dim and vaguely off-color. Sickly looking. That clean, white light now began to suffuse the other's weaker glow, like little jets of flame tearing away one by one, dissolving into Severus's magic. They had begun tearing off more quickly and Smethwyck shifted the height of his wand, dampening down on the flow until they returned to their former pace. The healer was sweating bullets, now, though Minerva felt not a shred of sympathy for him.

 

This was a wholly inadvisable thing, she thought. She knew Severus needed this, desperately, but the risks to Harry were really unconscionable, even if Smethwyck was arrogant enough to believe he could pull off a complicated spell like this on the first try. There had been no way to turn Harry off of the idea once it had been offered to him, though, and despite the fact that she'd gotten him to at least sleep on it, she had already known he could not be swayed.

 

That didn't mean she wouldn't be having words with both Smethwyck and the head healer of St Mungo's later. In fact, she intended to have several words with them, and possibly the Ministry of Magic as well. There was no way this utter fiasco could fall within the Hippocratic oath that all healers were required to make when they began their training. _First, do no harm_. She sent a silent prayer to any god that might be listening that Harry would come out of this ultimately unscathed. He was a strong young man, but not invincible.

 

She squinted through the brilliant light surrounding him and could just almost make out the outline of his form where it lay within. _You never could just stand aside, could you?_

 

Eyes watering, Minerva turned aside and looked across the line of seats at the Weasleys. The two boys were gripping the edges of their seats and craning forward to watch. Arthur and Molly were leaning together, their hands clutched between them. Ginny had pulled her feet up onto the chair, hugging the satchel Harry had brought with him under her chin. A few drying tears streaked her face, although she was no longer crying for the moment.

 

Minerva's attention was pulled back to the action ahead of her as Smethwyck suddenly raised his wand above his head, holding it as high as he could stretch. The intermingled magic below pulsed, finally having reached some sort of equilibrium.

 

Smethwyck brought his wand down like a sword, slashing through the center of the light. Minerva cried out and lifted an arm to shield her eyes as the mass of light burst, shooting outward to fill the entire ward like a sun going nova. Her heart skipped a beat as a thread of magic shot through her and out the other side like she were made of nothing.

 

The dancing light suddenly halted and then pulled inward, streaking back toward the two supine forms, darting back into their chests, leaving only the barest shimmering thread flashing between them.

 

Smethwyck staggered to the side and one of the witches caught him before he fell.

 

“Well, that was quite a thrill, wasn't it? Smashing success!”

 

It took all of Minerva's willpower not to pull out her wand and hex the man where he stood.

 

-

 

The first thing he noticed was that the ever-present pain in his body was gone. The second, that his hands were not shaking. The third, that he was _not_ alone.

 

The last clear memory he had was of being at home in his own kitchen and hearing an unfamiliar witch's voice casting the _Cruciatus_ curse at his back.

 

Other, more muddled memories swirled around in his mind. One face was present in nearly all of them. At times it was like looking into a blurry mirror, but many years ago. Other times, he had thought that he'd been looking at Lily, into her worried green eyes. Most of the time, the two images had somehow coalesced into one young, troubled face peering down at him for some unfathomable reason.

 

He was no longer in pain, but he felt exhausted, like he'd not slept in weeks. And just where the hell was he?

 

Smethwyck leaned over him and Severus stared up at him crossly. _You, again_.

 

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Mr Snape.”

 

Severus shifted on the bed, suddenly encountering another warm body. Startled, he propped himself up and was suddenly looking at the unconscious form of Harry Potter.

 

“Why the bloody hell am I laying on a bed with _him_ —“

 

Smethwyck pushed at him until he was laying flat again, ignoring the dead weight of boy next to him for the moment.

 

“He volunteered to donate a bit of his innate magic to patch up the damage in yours, but I'm afraid we went just a tad overboard. I'm confident he'll recover completely, but you'll just have to tolerate his proximity for a few days as the connection between the two of you recedes completely. We couldn't cut it off entirely without risking harm to the both of you. It will die down on its own, but unless you want to do yourself and him both an injury, you will need to be _patient_.”

 

Severus glared at the man.

 

“This is _highly_ inappropriate, for all manner of reasons, there _has_ to be an alternative! And who the bloody hell allowed him to do such a damned foolish thing in the first place?”

 

He began rolling toward the far edge of the bed, intending to remove himself from the situation. “Of all the idiotic, harebrained schemes, leave it to _Potter_...”

 

A sharp pain flared in his chest, leaving him falling back and gasping for breath. He heard a small noise from Harry on the other side, but the boy didn't wake. Smethwyck just stood back, shaking his head with a slightly twisted smile.

 

“Well I won't restrain you, but as you can see, it would be highly inadvisable for you to move away from him at the moment. And before you waste your breath dragging your son's name through the mud any further, it was _my_ idea. And it worked a treat! He will recover in a few weeks or so, and you, as you might have noticed, are more or less back to normal, if tired. That too will pass soon enough, if you stop flailing about and rest.”

 

Snape groped at the place where his wand was normally hidden and nearly spit in frustration when his fingers found nothing. He wanted no more than to curse that smug expression off of the healer's face.

 

The earlier exhaustion, however, had him obediently slumping back down onto the mattress. He carefully kept as much of a gap as space would allow between himself and the boy. Of all the humiliating situations he could find himself in, being effectively tethered to _Harry Potter_ , even for a few days...

 

He glanced to the side irritably at the offending boy and scoffed. _H_ _e's gone and let his hair grow out. Just what the hell is he playing at?_

 

_-_

 

 

FRIDAY, 24 JULY

Severus lay on his side and tried to ignore what was at his back. The nurses continually fussed over the boy and clucked like mother hens. It was hardly as if the brat were going anywhere! Not that he minded them keeping everything tidy, given that he couldn't get away at the moment. The situation was beyond absurd. _I should be dead right now, twice over._

Harry did not wake, however much the hospital staff handled him. He would sometimes shift and talk incoherently in his sleep and Severus had to resist the urge to jab him in the ribs with an elbow. Well, at least he doesn't snore.

 

_But why couldn't the stupid boy just leave him alone? Why did he have to keep turning up and _saving_ him, by proxy or otherwise? Couldn't he see that Severus didn't _want_ saving? _

_-_

“Well I must admit, you do seem more your old self, Severus.”

He sat at the edge of the bed, as far as he could go without provoking another heart-stabbing pain like he'd experienced the day before.

“Apparently.”

“So you'll be returning to Hogwarts in September, then? I've got a few candidates but have not made any sort of final decision on either the Defense or Potions positions. It would certainly make the choice much easier if you'd return.”

 

“What, and have somebody else's bereaved mother turn up and have a go at me? Minerva, you can't possibly think that it's a good idea. I might be able to use a wand properly again, but that does not change anything else.”

 

“I think we can handle the occasional attempted murder these days, what with all the experience we've had over the last seven years. Indeed, you'll be far safer among the rest of us than skulking about in Cokeworth. If Mrs Otterburn could track you down there, I doubt it would present much challenge for anyone else. Her son had been promising enough, but I don't recall her being much of a student herself. I suppose Anthony took after his father. It is certainly a pity he ran afoul of the Death Eaters last May, but that really wasn't your fault, whatever his mother assumed.”

 

Severus sat for several long minutes, unsure of himself. He shouldn't have to make these sorts of decisions. He should be dead . These problems should not belong to him. The room felt like it was tilting on a crooked axis.

 

“Where is she?”

 

“Who?”

 

“Otterburn. I doubt Harry killed her outright, he simply hasn't the stomach for it.”

 

Minerva raised an eyebrow at him.

“No, indeed he does not, to his credit. Mrs Otterburn is in Azkaban awaiting trial, I believe. Harry managed to incapacitate her quite thoroughly, though not until after she'd bruised him up quite badly. I'm surprised one of the Aurors hasn't turned up already to get a statement from you. I suppose they'll be along soon enough. Also, you are changing the subject, Severus, and do not think I didn't learn years ago how to tell when you are avoiding a discussion.”

Severus scowled at her. She had a captive audience and knew it and damned if he didn't resent the hell out of her for taking advantage, even though he well knew he'd be doing the exact same thing if the situation were reversed.

“Oh, do give it up, Severus. You may have a while to consider the offer, it won't be a pressing issue until the middle of August at the earliest. I suppose if you prefer you can ply your living brewing common potions for the masses, as you know full well there isn't enough of a market for the more interesting ones to pay the bills, but I somehow can't see you doing that for long.”

 

Severus shifted, his eyes following Minerva as she walked around to the other side of the bed. She brushed long, black hair away from Harry's face, and ran a fingertip gently down the thin line of the boy's nose.

“He really does rather look like a softer version of you, you know. Lily's influence I suppose, she was such a pretty lass... I don't know why you insist on denying him so vehemently, Severus, he's quite a fine young man on the whole. A bit rash, perhaps, but so are most at his age.”

Severus clenched his jaw, not quite to the point of grinding his teeth, his temper somewhat blunted by his lingering exhaustion. Minerva pulled at the cover, tucking it around Harry's thin shoulders as the boy turned toward her touch, dark hair once again spilling across his pale face.

“He was better off as Potter's son and you know it. Lily certainly had enough good sense to realize the obvious.”

Minerva crossed her arms and tilted her head back, appraising him. He tried not to let it unnerve him, but the stance and expression nearly made him feel like a student again himself.

 

“James Potter is dead, Severus. _You_ are not. And you have Harry to thank for that, lately, although in some ways I suppose he was simply returning the favor, as it were. Still, he did not _have_ to do what he has done, no one forced him.”

Severus sneered at her.

 

“I certainly did not _ask_ him to—”

 

“No, Severus, you did not. Indeed, you seem to hold very little value in your own life these days—do not think I have not noticed _that_ as well—but obviously Harry sees _something_ in you that he has deemed worth preserving, and that is one subject where I do trust his wisdom and judgment, despite his youth. If he is going to emulate Albus Dumbledore in any fashion, a knack for seeing the value hidden within the perpetually stubborn and ill-tempered is far from the worst choice. I doubt many others would continue to make such an effort after all the rubbish that's come out of your mouth over the years.”

 

 

Severus hunched in on himself somewhat, feeling terribly exposed. Minerva shook her head at him in exasperation.

“One of these days, Severus, you're just going to have to take that stick out of your arse and lighten up. Life goes on, as they say, so learn how to deal with it. And stop treating your son like something you stepped in, for Merlin's sake. He doesn't bite!”

At that, the witch turned on her heel and strode out of the ward before he had a chance to formulate a response.

_-_

Severus pulled the pillow from under his head and pulled it over his face, briefly considering an attempt at smothering himself, however unsuccessful the action was likely to prove. He ached for _something_ to put him out of his misery, suffering as he was from acute over-exposure to _Weasleys_ .

If Molly Weasley attempted to touch him again, he would not be held responsible for his actions. She'd suddenly gotten the notion that he was an appropriate target for her obsessive mothering, pulling at blankets and mucking with pillows as though he were a child to be tucked in.

At least she'd finally given up on him and moved back around to Harry again, who was in no state to care one way or another. He turned his head slightly beneath the pillow, tiring of the warm, stale air he was re-breathing.

_Who am I kidding, he probably eats up the attention like a glutton,_ said one voice in his head.

 

_Well of course he does, it's not as though nasty old 'Tuney ever gave a toss about him, and doubtful even a shred of affection,_ replied another _._

_He's a spoiled brat._

_They locked him in a damned closet._

_They probably let him get away with everything._

They nearly starved him, to the point that he's a good half-foot shorter than he ought to be .

Severus rolled over, still holding the pillow across his eyes, blocking out the room as much as possible and muffling the voices of Harry's visitors.

 

He's nobody's father and certainly not fit for the title, by any definition, any more than his own violent, alcoholic excuse for a father had been. Despite Minerva's musings on the subject, he knew full well that there was nothing the boy could possibly “see” in him. Potter was forever rushing headlong into danger if he thought there was even a chance he could save somebody else, no matter how wretched or undeserving. It was a habit that had made his task of keeping the child alive far more complicated than it should have been. It didn't even matter that it was him; he could be literally anybody at all and Harry would move Heaven and Earth to spare him.

 

 

He didn't deserve such a son.

 

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

SATURDAY, 25 JULY

 

Another glorious summer day dawned on the spell damage ward of St. Mungo's Hospital. Snape awoke feeling uncomfortably warm and with something heavy weighing him down. He looked down at himself only to be greeted with the sight of a head of badly tangled black hair propped on his chest and sharp knees digging into the side of his thigh.

 

_And I thought this situation could not get more ridiculous. I am not a goddamned stuffed bear!_

 

Severus sat up, all but shoving the boy away. Harry slid heavily to the mattress and Severus pushed at him until he was laid properly back in his own space. The boy whined softly in his sleep, the only complaint he seemed capable of.

 

A few minutes later, the boy was shivering, curling further in on himself pathetically. Severus tossed the blanket haphazardly over him, rolling his eyes heavenward. If he could not leave soon, he might very well kill himself.

 

A healer strode across the room toward him. Smethwyck came behind her.

 

“Well, it shouldn't be too much longer, I think,” she told him.

 

Smethwyk didn't bother with a greeting but merely took his wand out and gave both Severus and Harry a quick once-over.

 

“The thread is indeed nearly gone. Should be dissipated entirely by the end of the day, I would guess. I'll drop in this evening and if everything is clear, you can leave, Mr Snape.”

 

 _Thank Heaven for small mercies_ , Severus thought. He gave the healer a nod as the man turned to leave. His companion was not following him, though.

 

“Your son will have to stay through the end of the week at the very least, I'm afraid.”

 

Severus quirked an eyebrow at her. What business of his was it how long the boy stayed? Harry had been living with the Weasleys since he'd left Hogwarts, as far as he knew. At seventeen, he was considered an adult by wizarding law, in any case. He'd be eighteen at the end of the week, and even the Muggles would not regard him as requiring a guardian.

 

And yet he found himself replying to the witch. “And after that?”

 

“After that we will lift the charm keeping him asleep and he can go home, but will still need to be more or less confined to bed rest for another week or so. He absolutely should not be allowed to perform any magic, with or without a wand. His innate magic is healing and renewing itself quite well. He's a strong lad, but any real expenditure of magical energy could delay his recovery.

 

“One of his friends mentioned earlier that he intended to apply for the Auror training program, should the Ministry allow him to do so without exam results, and I'd hate for him to have to delay his plans for another year over something like this.”

 

Severus rubbed at his forehead, trying not get a headache. The healer merely smiled at him and left.

 

Of course he wants to be an Auror. What else could he possibly desire? He could spend the rest of his life gleefully hounding after every misbegotten dark wizard and sweeping in to rescue every lost soul in the whole of the United Kingdom and perhaps beyond. He'd be _ecstatic_.

 

And not a single bloody N.E.W.T. course or exam result to his name. They'd let him in, of course. They'd be fools not to. The P.R. disaster of denying the Boy Who Lived, Blessed Slayer of Voldemort a place in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement... There wasn't a snowball's chance in hell that they wouldn't snap him up the moment he asked, consequences be damned. He wondered if they'd even bother to train him properly, or just toss him out into the field on his reputation alone.

 

Severus glanced down at his son, sleeping fitfully beside him. Severus in truth knew him to be reasonably competent, whatever he'd called the boy in years past, but as he sat there watching him, he could not stop the thought that he looked far younger than his nearly eighteen years, and awfully small.

 

_Can I still keep him alive, Lily? Will you forgive me when I fail?_

 

-

 

FRIDAY, 31 JULY

 

Harry was asleep. He knew he was asleep, and yet he was simultaneously half-aware of his surroundings, somehow. He tried to pull himself fully into the waking world, but could not make his body move. It was terribly frustrating. Fragments of dreams came and went, strange shadows moving about him, vague threats at the edge of his mind.

 

He groaned, pushing against the strange paralysis that gripped him, forcing himself to move, but managed only mere inches.

 

Something came close to him, but not a dream's shadow this time. Some _one_ , rather. He was not frightened, now. The presence was familiar and comforting, and felt very much like himself, somehow. He tried to move toward it, forcing his spine to bend somewhat but otherwise failing to engage his stubborn muscles.

 

He moved, finally, but not under his own power this time. Someone was pulling him closer. He turned his face against the warmth, settling against the steady sound of a heartbeat, and fell back into the warm depths of deep sleep.

 

-

 

“Well, it certainly took you long enough to show up, I know we've sent at least three owls this week. We'll be waking him this evening and if he checks out alright, he can go home.”

 

Severus was sitting in a chair next to Harry's bed as the healer admonished him for not responding after they'd sent him the first letter on Tuesday. They clearly seemed to think he had a far different sort of relationship with Harry than what the reality of it was.

 

 _She thinks you're his bloody_ father _, you idiot._

 

He adjusted his grip on the restless boy, who responded by pushing his head into Severus's chest almost to the point of being painful, the sharp line of his nose pressing against Severus like he could somehow burrow inside like a rabbit if he just tried hard enough.

 

The table next to Harry's bed was piled high with birthday cards and gifts. The Weasley clan had dropped by earlier in the day, no doubt. _“Born as the seventh month dies.”_ Well, if he'd lost track of the date, he was no longer unaware. Not that Harry was particularly in any position to appreciate his friends' well-wishes at the moment. He probably had planned on doing something this day that did not involve clinging to Severus Snape in the middle of some fevered dream on the spell damage ward of St. Mungo's.

 

“I don't know if Smethwyck bothered to mention this to you earlier, but the spell we used on the two of you has a, er, side-effect, of sorts, on the magical signatures of the participants.”

 

“Which _is_...?” Severus had no patience for people who did not know how to simply say what they meant and the witch hesitated again at his short tone.

 

“The spell requires an existing similarity to work at all, but afterward, apparently, the similarity is increased, to the point of the two signatures being nearly indistinguishable. I suspect his, er... sudden clinginess... may be as much his magic recognizing yours as part of itself, as anything else. You could probably use his wand as well as your own now, for example.”

 

Severus closed his eyes and forced himself to breath normally. It was a bizarre concept, and vaguely disturbing. His wand had been in the boy's satchel in a pocket next to Harry's own holly wand, and he had found and retrieved his familiar blackthorn companion before leaving on Saturday, giving no special thought to the matter.

 

“You just seemed a bit, er, rattled, by his behavior, so I figured I'd mention it. Smethwyck said something earlier about individually keyed wards and magical contracts being affected as well. I don't know why he hasn't talked to you about it yet. For the most part it's not really a big deal for most practical considerations, but it's not the kind of thing that should be completely disregarded either.”

 

Oh, _goody_ , he'd have to re-ward everything he owned if he didn't want Potter able to get into it all. _“Not a big deal” my arse,_ he thought.

 

 _Or maybe it doesn't really matter? What do you think he's going to_ do _, exactly? “He doesn't bite.”_

 

Severus scowled, this time at himself. Why was he getting so absurdly maudlin all of a sudden? Nearly dying twice in so many weeks had clearly unhinged his mind. He settled for shrugging at the healer, who looked at him for a few more moments, then left.

 

Severus shifted his sleeping burden enough to get his blackthorn wand out of its sleeve pocket. With a flick, he summoned Harry's satchel from its place under the table piled with his gifts, catching the strap deftly with the pinky and ring fingers of the same hand holding his wand. He stashed his own wand behind an ear like he'd so often barked at students not to do, and balanced the bag on the bed. He rummaged through it until he found the inner pocket holding that famous eleven inch Holly wand with its Phoenix feather that had been a twin of Voldemort's.

 

He lifted the wand out and gripped it like he would his own. It did not feel entirely like his own, he could sense the different personality within it, but the same familiar warmth spread from his hand to suffuse his body, his magic stirring up within him, preparing itself.

 

“ _Wingardium Leviosa_ ”

 

The bag lifted from the bed, floating at his direction with ease. He curved the wand, and directed the object several feet to the side. There was none of the resistance, none of the sluggishness he'd experienced in the past when using a wand that was not his own. _Curious..._

 

Footsteps approached from behind and he lowered the bag to the floor, then released the spell entirely.

 

“Is there a reason you are playing about with Harry's wand, Severus, or are you just _that_ bored?”

 

Minerva came to stand at his side, looking down at him with a somewhat pinched expression.

 

“One of the healers mentioned something to me about that ridiculous spell they used. I was just finding out if there was any validity to the notion.”

 

Minerva's annoyance was replaced with something more like curiosity.

 

“Well?”

 

Severus shifted uncomfortably where he sat and Harry pushed against him again in response. He refused to pay any mind to it.

 

“She wasn't exaggerating. His wand may as well be my own, as far as I can tell. I suspect he could use mine similarly, although obviously he is not in a condition to test the theory and won't be for some time yet.”

 

“What have you tried so far?”

 

“Just a simple levitation, but there was absolutely no resistance, as I would have expected.”

 

“Hm.”

 

Minerva pulled a coin purse from a pocket and removed the coins before setting it down near Severus.

 

“See if you can make something of that, then.”

 

Severus smiled and raised an eyebrow at her, meeting the Transfiguration professor's challenge.

 

He lifted the holly wand and drew it over the purse in a complicated path, wordlessly. A miniature potted cactus with a single yellow blossom tipped to the side on the mattress, spilling a bit of sand. He smirked at Minerva. “Well, perhaps red would have been more attractive.”

 

Minerva picked up the small earthenware pot, brushed the loose sand back into it and set it out of the way on the table with Harry's birthday presents.

 

“Indeed. I did not know you were quite that proficient in nonverbal transfiguration, Severus. That wand likes you, I think.”

 

“It has merely mistaken me for its own master.”

 

He flicked the pale holly wand to summon the satchel again, and returned the wand to its pocket. He removed his own dark blackthorn wand from its perch behind his ear and sent the bag floating back underneath the side table. He looked down where Harry was pressed against his chest.

 

“If you wouldn't mind, please firecall the Weasley residence and inform them that Harry will likely be released this evening and they will need to come and collect him.”

 

Minerva looked over the two of them.

 

“I am sure he won't fall to pieces if you let him go for fifteen minutes, Severus. You know it's really rather touching—”

 

“Minerva, do _not_ make more of this than what it is, which is very little. He does not even know what he is doing at the moment, or I am certain he would be utterly mortified. He was distressed before I arrived, this has calmed him, for whatever reason, and I do not want that blasted healer coming over here and giving me another lecture. She said something about his magic recognizing mine as part of itself, or some such rot, although given what I have observed with his wand, I suspect she may not be _completely_ barking. At any rate, Wilkins, or whatever her name is... she seems to be under the misapprehension that the boy will be leaving with _me_ tonight, so if you would please get in touch with the Weasleys?”

 

“The healer is named Watkins, not Wilkins. And I don't see any reason why you couldn't take Harry home, although I suppose you have some excuse handy.”

 

“ _Watkins_ said that he will need to be closely watched for another week or two, and confined to bed rest. I am sure Molly Weasley will be thrilled to play nursemaid to him for a while. I have put the house in Cokeworth to rights again but it is hardly a suitable place for him to convalesce. He will be far happier with his friends, I assure you.”

 

“Oh, of _course_ , Severus, you are merely concerned with his happiness and absolutely nothing else, I have no doubt! Well, if you insist, I will go downstairs to the floos and let them know. Before I do, however, have you given any further thought to returning to Hogwarts? You only have two weeks left before we have to make a final decision.”

 

Severus hesitated. He was still rather ambivalent on the whole subject. He needed to work, he needed to support himself. She hadn't been wrong, before – spending his time churning out the sort of potions that sold well enough to profit from was indeed a drudgery, although he'd now be able to do it without difficulty beyond enduring the sheer monotony of it.

 

Wolfsbane, of course, commanded a high price, usually subsidized by the Ministry for those victims of lycanthropy who could not afford it (which was a majority of them, as they could rarely find employment), but it could not be produced in mass and he could manage only three or four cauldrons' worth at a time without losing control of them and ruining the brew.

 

“Well, Severus, you are running out of time, for this year at least. If you can't stomach the thought of teaching again, and will not return to the position of Headmaster either, what exactly do you intend to do? Sit in that depressing house every day all by yourself?”

 

“I'll survive,” he told her, not entirely sure of it himself. Or if he even wanted to.

 

“You'll _survive_. Well, of course you will survive. But there is a significant difference between 'surviving' and 'living,' Severus. I think you've forgotten this, if you ever learned it to begin with. But Voldemort is dead and the war is over. You, my dear one, are still here. Perhaps it's time for you to recognize that.”

 

He barely restrained himself from snapping at her, aware of other ears around the ward, despite the curtains.

 

“Well, Severus, do let me know soon. I will go speak to Molly and Arthur about retrieving your son from you, as you apparently still consider him an unwanted burden.”

 

Her last comment stung, somehow, but he pushed the feeling away and scowled at her retreating back.

 

-

 

Harry sat on the edge of the bed, dreadfully tired despite having been unconscious for days. He was happy to be wearing his own clothing once again, at least, although it had been something of a struggle to stay upright long enough to get himself dressed.

 

Mr and Mrs Weasley were in conversation with Watkins just out of hearing. She'd already informed him, in no uncertain terms, that he should not even so much as touch his wand for another week, which somewhat dampened his mood.

 

He reached over and picked up one of the cards on the table. Neville had sent him a birthday card covered in pictures of moving golden snitches, darting randomly about the exterior of the card and, once he opened it, all flying over the edge of the card to swarm around the message and signature. He picked up the box of sugar quills that had come with it and pulled one out to chew on the end of it. Not exactly how he'd planned to spend his eighteenth birthday, on the whole.

 

He had awoken not even an hour ago, held awkwardly in the arms of the very man he'd lent his magic to, but Snape had said nothing at all. He'd let go of Harry almost immediately, standing and backing away from him as though he were something dangerous.

 

Well, he hadn't really expected gushing gratitude, but _some_ sort of acknowledgment would have been nice, or at least not whatever the hell _that_ reaction had been. Harry looked across the room where the man was hunched over by himself in a chair, staring intently at his own boots, by the looks of it.

 

Harry set Neville's card back on the table and dug through the bag of tricks from Ron and George. He recognized the extra-strength dungbombs, the fanged frisbee and the multiple varieties of Whiz-Bang fireworks. In the bottom of the bag were a few items of a more... experimental nature. Some he'd seen Ron and George working on before, recognizing the yellowish-brown powder that had produced a large volume of noxious, eye-watering smoke when added to water, chasing him out of the back room of Wheezes many weeks ago, but some of them he would have to ask about before he attempted to handle.

 

He put the bag aside gently and picked up a wrapped parcel that was clearly a rather thick book. The card tucked under the string was from Hermione, unsurprisingly. She must have finally returned from Australia with her parents while he'd been out of it, then. He ripped the shimmering paper off, revealing the title - _A Dance of Shadow and Light: A Guide to New Developments and Advanced Theory and Technique in the Defensive Magical Arts_.

 

He set the heavy book down on the mattress and caught sight of a tiny pot with a small, round prickly cactus bearing a single, tiny yellow flower. Picking it up, he could find no tag or label on it. Perhaps Luna had sent it? He held it up to the lingering evening sunlight streaming in from the windows, smiling at the oddly cheerful little thing.

 

He looked up and found Snape looking back at him from across the room, his head tilted at an odd angle with an expression he had never seen on the man's face before. If it had been on anybody else, he might have called it thoughtful, or almost a bit sad.

 

He was distracted before he had time to consider the incongruity. Mr Weasley stepped away from his wife and the healer Watkins, who continued their discussion without him. He came over to Harry with a broad grin on his face and pulled out the scroll that had been sticking out of his back pocket all evening with a flourish, holding it out to Harry.

 

“I've brought just one more present for you, and I think you'll like this one!”

 

Harry took the thick roll of parchment from him and unrolled the stack, smoothing it out on his lap for a minute until it stopped trying to curl back up.

 

_Ministry of Magic_

_Department of Magical Law Enforcement_

_Official Application for Entrance to the Auror Training Program_

_Autumn 1998_

 

The first page consisted of a dense block of instructions and explanations, cautioning applicants to fill out each portion in its entirety and truthfully, and to read each section carefully.

 

At the bottom of the page was a bullet list of documents that would need to be attached with the submittal, including a recent head shot, a certified copy of an Apparition license, sealed copies of applicable N.E.W.T.s exam results and a sealed transcript or other documentation proving an adequate magical education ('See Attached List for Recognized Institutions and Courses').

 

Harry frowned up at Mr. Weasley, who simply continued to grin at him, rocking on his heels slightly.

 

Thinking he must have missed something, Harry scanned down the page again, then flipped to the next sheet. He found a notation in red script at the very end and suddenly started breathing again.

 

_Applicants able to provide proof of active participation against the forces of the individual widely known as 'Lord Voldemort' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' in the Battle of Hogwarts, occurring at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry on the Second of May of this year, may waive the requirement for N.E.W.T.s results. Written statements by witnesses present may require additional verification by the Ministry._

 

_A full transcript of all completed magical education courses must still be submitted and will be evaluated on an individual basis. Applicants submitting under this provision will be required to accept additional tutoring in any skills or subjects deemed deficient by the Ministry as a condition of their acceptance and continued participation in the program. Failure to complete required tutoring will result in dismissal._

 

All exhaustion forgotten, Harry launched himself at Mr Weasley, nearly knocking the man off his feet and hugging him tightly while fighting back tears. Mr Weasley laughed, returning the hug.

 

“I thought that might cheer you up, Harry. Ron's planning on applying as well, told me last night. We'll get to work on your Apparition license as soon as you're up to it.”

 

Harry finally let go of him as Mrs Weasley came over to them, pulling him into a hug next. Over her shoulder, he saw Snape still sitting alone, watching him from a distance, looking almost like a lost child. Feeling generous in his moment of joy, Harry held the Auror application up, grinning at the man while waving it in the air like a flag of victory.

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

FRIDAY, 14 AUGUST

 

Minerva sat at the desk in the Headmaster's office. _Her_ desk in the _Headmistress_ 's office, she reminded herself.

 

She flipped through stacks of applications for the Muggle Studies, Potions and DADA positions for the umpteenth time. She'd more or less settled on her choice for Muggle Studies, and would only have to interview maybe two or three other promising candidates, she thought, to be absolutely certain. It was not a subject she wanted neglected, in light of recent events. She'd never paid much attention to it before, but after everything that had happened, she thought a bit more understanding and bit less overall chauvinism in Magical community could do none of them any great harm.

 

She'd have to start winnowing the other two stacks down and contacting some for interviewing soon, by the middle of the next week at the absolute latest, or the Board of Governors would start asking questions she did not care to answer. She had delayed as long as she possibly could. She'd truly thought he'd eventually see reason. Why could he not at least _consider_ it?

 

She'd heard Severus's detailed protestations about upsetting parents with his checkered past at least three times now, but he's hardly the most dubious instructor Hogwarts has seen, not by a long shot. At least he had never deliberately put his students in the way of serious harm, which could not be said for many of the rest of them.

 

Minerva herself had occasionally been guilty of allowing the more arrogant of her pupils to learn their error the hard way, but only the truly foolish believed magic could be learned in absolute safety, anyway. Perhaps it was the Gryffindor in her coming out, but she had never considered Hogwarts a place for the timid or weak of heart.

 

What was he even doing, all this time? She thought of what she'd seen of his home in Cokeworth and its surroundings and her heart ached. She could not imagine a more oppressive place. He'd grown up in that house, she knew. He never spoke of his childhood, never sat over a drink in the staffroom reminiscing over childhood anecdotes like some of them did. Of course, she'd overheard plenty over the years, in the hallways whispered between students, and repeated in the staffroom with even less propriety, both when he was a student and after he'd returned to teach.

 

There had been rumors of an alcoholic Muggle father and a pureblood mother who seemed to have all but forgotten she was ever a witch, gleefully passed around among her young Gryffindors, particularly the friends of James Potter and Sirius Black, who had found their peer's struggles at home a source of levity. How they had even heard such things, Minerva was unsure, although perhaps in some moment of annoyance or poor judgment, Lily Evans had let slip a few details in the common room.

 

She drained her teacup, thinking now that she should have said something to them, all those years ago. She had never been one to get wrapped up in the adolescent dramas of her charges, preferring to let them sort through their social difficulties amongst themselves. It was hard at her age to admit an old error, but she could not deny that she had failed him, and probably many other equally vulnerable students besides. She'd do well to pay better attention, she thought, as Headmistress.

 

She picked up the stack of Potions master applicants again, scanning over each CV one by one. None of them really stuck out at her. They all met the minimum qualification for experience, coming mostly from apothecary backgrounds; one had brewed healing potions for St Mungo's for nearly a decade, but that did not necessarily indicate an aptitude for passing on that knowledge effectively, or for any broader understanding of the subject as a whole.

 

Minerva had known enough workaday, lab-bench brewers over the years to think poorly of them as a category and knew that Severus had a special contempt for them bordering on outright scorn. They tended to hold fast to official methods and were often hidebound and uncreative, rarely willing to experiment or improve upon old formulations. Most were proficient in the process and were able to remember the steps to a wide variety of potions by rote, but often had an incomplete grasp of the conceptual side of the art.

 

She thought of Severus spending his days doing the same in some back room in Cokeworth, supplying the usual clients with the usual formulations again and again, maybe occasionally dabbling in his own formulations only to find them rejected outright by the uneducated and skeptical who balked at the notion of changing anything like they were allergic, despite any greater efficacy or diminished side effects.

 

The DADA applicants were only marginally better, but perhaps the reputation of the post still discouraged many. She did not think the position would be jinxed any longer, now that Voldemort was officially as dead as a fencepost, and good riddance. One retired professional curse-breaker might be suitable, Minerva thought, but the woman was asking for rather more than the standard salary for her trouble and the school governors were unlikely to concede to the demand if she were unwilling to compromise.

 

Minerva stood and made her way around to the staircase and up to the private quarters she'd finally finished moving her things into. Digging through a cardboard box she hadn't yet had time to unpack, she found a half-empty bottle of firewhisky and poured herself a glass.

 

-

 

SATURDAY, 15 AUGUST

 

Severus had not left his house other than a few brief trips to the small Muggle grocery a few blocks away since the day he'd left his ailing son in the care of others at St. Mungos on the boy's birthday. What use could Harry possibly have for a man like him? Arthur Weasley was a better choice by far in every respect if he still desired a father figure in his life.

 

Severus had seen the parchment the boy had been waving about, the Ministry seal at the top and the boy's ecstasy telling him all he needed to know. The Ministry of Magic had foolishly waived the requirement for N.E.W.T.s results and an entire year of education, no doubt. He thought of a whole batch of unqualified Aurors mucking about all over the country in a couple of years, Harry at the front of the pack. Harry should be made to go back to Hogwarts and finish properly, but knew it was impossible to sway the impatience of youth when a shortcut was offered.

 

He knew the seventh year potions curriculum like the back of his own hand, he could teach the boy himself in less than half the usual time if— Severus shook his head, wondering where the absurd idea had entered. They could hardly stand to be in same room together for any length of time. Well, it _had_ been that way, until...

 

Severus had spent the prior evening and half the morning sifting through every cabinet and drawer and untidy stack of ingredients he had, looking for more powdered bicorn horn. He could have sworn he'd had another full jar some place, but it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps it had been smashed when that Otterburn woman had dropped in for her friendly little visit.

 

There was nothing for it, though. He would have to go into Diagon Alley. There were a few other things he needed to pick up, anyway. He was unwilling to keep an owl in a Muggle town and could not order by post, and so he had no other choice.

 

-

 

Harry sat with Ron, Hermione and Ginny inside Fortescue's, eating melting sundaes in the August heat. Hermione and Ginny had several shopping bags each, full of supplies for their seventh year at Hogwarts.

 

“I don't know why you won't go back, Harry. Even if the Ministry is going to offer extra tutoring, that's not the same as a real Hogwarts education, and you know it. And that goes for you too, Ron.”

 

Ron shrugged and shoved another spoonful of dripping ice cream and chocolate sauce into his mouth, clearly tired of this argument. There was no denying that Hermione was serious about school, always had been, but Harry was fed up and done with it and ready for something else, and that was the end of it for him. The defeat of Voldemort had, indeed, drawn a deep line across his life, and returning felt like going backwards. He wasn't sure he could stand walking the same halls every day for months, where so many had died either.

 

“Yeah, I _do_ know, Hermione. But I've already sent everything in. I'm even getting my Apparition license finally, they know I've made the appointment. I'll know for sure by next week if they've let me in or not, but Mr Weasley already told me they'd all but admitted to him that they were ready to accept me before I even filled out the application.

 

“I mean, I _did_ finish off Voldemort, and that's got to count for something. I've wanted this for a really long time, Hermione. I'm not putting it off another year. There's more important things than exams.”

 

Hermione sighed, pushing the mostly liquid remnants of her treat over to Ron, who picked it up and drank the melted ice cream straight from the bowl while Ginny rolled her eyes at his lack of table manners.

 

“Yea, I know that, too, I really do these days. But they're not _un_ important either. I just don't want the two of you out there unprepared, you know? Voldemort might be dead and most of his Death Eaters with him, but that doesn't mean there aren't dangerous wizards and witches still out there. Or will be, sooner or later. I mean, look what happened to your father! And Mrs Otterburn wasn't really even a dark witch, just a desperate one. What if you get hurt because you didn't know something you could have learned?”

 

Harry pulled a bright red cherry out of its swimming pool in the bottom of his bowl and plucked the fruit off the stem between his teeth, enjoying the tangy sweetness before replying.

 

“I guess we'll just have to get you to fill us in, then. We can meet up and compare notes, if you want. If you don't think the tutors are giving us what we need, I'm sure you'll let them know.” _And Merlin help them if they earn your wrath_ , he added in his own head.

 

Hermione leaned back in her seat, apparently giving in, at least for the moment. “I suppose we can do that, on Hogsmeade weekends and holidays, anyway. Well, Ginny and I need to head over to Flourish and Blotts if you want to split up, I can't imagine you have much interest in hanging about in book shops anymore. We can meet up again at George's later?”

 

Harry nodded, feeling vaguely insulted at the bookshop remark but letting it go. Ginny and Hermione gathered up their shopping and headed toward the door. After a moment's hesitation Ron got up to join them.

 

“You mind if go with the girls? I haven't been able to spend much time with Hermione this summer and...”

 

Harry smiled at his friend. “Yea, go on. I'll see you at Wheezes later. I'm thinking it's time for a new broomstick, anyway.”

 

“Can't wait to see what you pick up, then. See you later.”

 

Harry watched Ron join Ginny and Hermione and disappear through the door. He played with the remnants of his sundae for a moment and then stepped back out into the sweltering furnace of the summer afternoon on his own.

 

-

 

Harry shouldered his new Firebolt, an updated version of his old model that cost a bloody fortune (but he'd not been able to resist), and started the walk back to Wheezes to meet up with his friends. The newest Nimbus racing brooms were a better design on the whole, but he felt somewhat sentimental about his old broom, wishing he had not lost it on that final, catastrophic exodus from his Aunt and Uncle's home. It was silly to get attached to possessions, he knew, but he still thought about Sirius. He no longer felt utterly suffocated by guilt and regret, but there was still an ache there, like an old wound troubling him in bad weather.

 

“Figures you couldn't go too long without another one of _those_.”

 

Harry turned at the familiar dour baritone. In the past, the endless sarcasm that spilled from the man's mouth like an uncontrollable reflex would have instantly had his dander up, but he was surprised at how little it affected him now.

 

Instead, he merely spared him half a smile, provoking that subtle quirk of an eyebrow he'd recently realized indicated mild confusion as often as genuine derision.

 

“Sir?”

 

Snape stood blinking at him, reminding Harry of the barn owl he still regrettably owed a proper name to, something other than “ruddy bird” at those times she insisted on mouthing at his hair with her beak in some sort of grooming gesture.

 

Harry shifted the broom to prop it against the cobblestone street when it began to slide from his shoulder, meeting his gaze without demand or ire. He shrugged slightly, trying to be casual about it. After all, the man might be his father, but he was no longer his teacher. He noted the parcel that Snape had gripped in one hand and recognized it from the potions supplier on the other end of the alley. Probably headed down to Knockturn for more specialized ingredients, Harry surmised.

 

“I suppose you're stocking up before you go back to Hogwarts?”

 

“I'm not returning.”

 

Harry was slightly taken aback. It had never occurred to him that Snape might leave Hogwarts entirely, however much he did not wish to be Headmaster.

 

“Really?”

 

“Yes, _really_.”

 

 _Ah, now he's back to normal_ , Harry thought. Somehow he was bothered less by Snape in the mood for snarking than he was by Snape standing there looking like he'd taken a surprise hit from a bludger.

 

“Where're you working, then? I mean, if you don't mind telling me.”

 

Snape's gaze drifted impatiently toward the direction of Knockturn Alley, confirming Harry's earlier guess.

 

“That remains to be seen. I will find something. It is certainly nothing for you to concern yourself over.”

 

“Oh, uh... right. Who told you that you couldn't go back to Hogwarts, though? The Board of Governors? I know Professor McGonagall wouldn't... and I can't imagine that the Ministry—“

 

Snape had that queer expression again, the one he'd had back at St. Mungos sitting in that chair across the room on Harry's birthday. Harry had expected him to interrupt his scattered rambling immediately, but Snape had let him talk.

 

“Are you alright, sir?”

 

“I'm perfectly fine, Potter. And nobody ordered me to leave, I resigned my post.”

 

Harry stood for a moment, trying to wrap his head around the problem that stood before him, wrapped in entirely too much black cloth for the heat of the season.

 

“I'm sure Professor McGonagall would give you the Defense position back. Or potions, if you'd rather. You should go back.”

 

Harry watched Snape's lip curl, but the cutting reply he expected did not follow the familiar gesture. Harry shifted on his feet, an odd sensation washing over him. He realized he could almost _feel_ the man's discomfiture, despite his outer aloofness.

 

 _Sympathetic magic_ , Watkins had called it. Not quite a horcrux lodged in his head this time, but there was a connection there, now, nonetheless, at least if they were standing close enough. He spent half a moment considering the phenomenon and decided he didn't really mind it. A few months ago he would have been absolutely _howling_ at the idea.

 

Harry tried for a reassuring feeling, mentally pushing it at Snape, although he had no idea whether it could work that way or not. It wasn't quite Legilimency, after all. No, it was something rather more fundamental than that, he thought. He mentally nosed at the connection, trying to feel out its limits. It was a bizarre feeling, like a sixth sense, and not entirely a comfortable one. The primary feedback he received from the thread between them, now that he could sense it, was a bone-deep tiredness coupled with a long-rooted and hopeless feeling of isolation.

 

 _He's lonely_.

 

Snape shifted his parcel from one hand to the other, apparently tiring of the weight of it. There must be something sensitive inside it, or he'd have shrunk it into a pocket, Harry thought. He took a gamble and reached out for the package, grabbing it before Snape's shock wore off and, shouldering his broom on the opposite arm, started walking toward Knockturn Alley, pausing after a few steps to look back at the stunned figure behind him.

 

“You _were_ headed this way, right?”

 

-

 

Severus felt like he'd suddenly stepped into someone else's life, or perhaps a fever dream. He wanted to shout at the boy, push him aside like the annoyance he is, but his mind suddenly felt like it was surrounded by...

 

He couldn't get his brain to string together the words, the retort, the cutting sarcasm that would send him off in a tiff to go find his friends and complain, wherever they were. Instead, he stood there holding Severus's package by the twine tied around the box, that absurdly expensive new racing broom slung over that bony shoulder, looking at him with a slightly bemused smile.

 

An odd, soft warmth that had nothing to do with the blaring heat of the day had settled over him, lessening in intensity as Harry walked away. Severus took an exploratory step forward, then another. By the time he stood next to the boy, he was beginning to understand.

 

He should resent it, this wretched, unwanted connection that had been forged between them. He tried to empty his mind, to throw up every mental block and misdirection of Occlumency that had formerly kept him alive at Voldemort's right hand. Absolutely nothing changed. It was simply not that type of connection, at all. _Why? Because it isn't Legilimency, you fool. It isn't an attack, and therefore, logically, it simply follows that it cannot be defended against, not like that._

 

The boy had no right to any part of his life, accidental shared blood or no, but the feeling now filling him up like the clean light of day was exhuming every old childhood memory of Lily Evans he had thought he'd buried completely.

 

Not the arguments and complicated feelings that had taken over after they'd arrived at Hogwarts and were torn apart first by the Sorting Hat and then by everything else in the world, but rather the innocence of those early days, two children laying side by side watching the shadows of leaves moving with the wind and the clouds glimpsed between them rolling by, sharing a dream of magic and escape, nestled in a sanctuary under an old bent oak tree by a river of no account in a forgotten town.

 

 _Take the box back and leave him. Forget the bloody box and leave him with all haste,_ now _. Apparate away and forget all of it forever._

 

Harry turned slowly away from him and began walking again. Severus betrayed himself and followed, head bowed, trailing obediently behind the smaller form of his son as something within him steadfastly refused to let go of the boy's presence.

 

He was undone, and he knew it, as surely as he knew his own name.

 

-

 

Harry felt Snape following him, the man's emotions churning confusingly. Harry walked slowly across the cobbles of the street, turning into the gap where Knockturn Alley began, the close, overhanging eaves and crooked buildings lending welcome shade.

 

He felt Snape suddenly receding behind him and stopped, turning.

 

Snape was leaning into a corner where two buildings met unevenly, his eyes tightly closed.

 

“Sir?”

 

Snape raised a hand toward him as if to ward him off, but Harry ignored it and rushed back to him. As he came close, the man began to slide down the wall, falling in a sort of slow motion until he was hunched in the shade.

 

His inner pain washed over Harry like the crest of wave, catching somewhere in the region of his heart. He propped the broom against the wall and gently set the parcel down on the cobbles before lowering himself against the wall beside Snape. He sat silently next to his father with his arms propped on his knees, staring down at the bit of street between his shoes.

 

He knew, intuitively, or perhaps informed by the connection between them, that to say anything at all or attempt some gesture of comfort, would only throw more fuel on whatever fire burned within him.

 

But, oh, he knew what Snape was feeling, at least in some part. He'd felt it before himself, many times, though perhaps he had grown more accustomed to it, somehow.

 

_They all just cared so much. So much, in fact, that it almost burned, sometimes, in a way, like standing too close to a furnace, or trying to look into the sun. And then there were those times he felt like he was burning from the inside, because he cared so much too, and the heat of his own heart ate him up like a fire within._

 

Snape, however, seemed utterly defenseless against it. Harry risked a glance at the man and was alarmed to see the track of a tear, now glistening at the edge of the man's jaw, then trailing down to his chin before falling.

 

Harry glanced around their surroundings, grateful that the place was currently otherwise unoccupied. Unlike Diagon Alley which had returned to life, most of the shops on this ill-reputed street were still boarded up and empty. A few had re-opened, mostly the more innocuous traders, but with few people currently willing to admit an interest in anything that could be considered Dark Arts in the aftermath of Voldemort's defeat, there wasn't a lot of demand for most of their wares.

 

Harry watched Snape from the corner of his eye patiently. He felt helpless, more than anything else, but remained rooted to the hard cobblestones where he sat by the knowledge that to abandon him now might possibly be the last betrayal this man would ever experience, that he'd shut himself off thoroughly from the world, if not eventually resorting to something even more drastic and final.

 

Harry watched the dividing line between shadow and sunlight moving slowly up the opposite wall as the afternoon wore on. His father might have fallen asleep, still and silent as he was, but Harry knew better.

 

Harry looked up, movement catching his eye. Down at the far end of the alley stood Ron, Ginny and Hermione, looking at the two of them seated on the ground. It must be an alarming sight, he thought.

 

He caught their eyes in succession and lifted a finger to his lips to head off speech. He shook his head and waved them away, silently mouthing his message: _I will find you later._ Hermione and Ginny backed away into Diagon Alley immediately and turned the corner. Ron stared at Harry and Snape a moment longer, then shrugged and followed them.

 

Harry sat back against the wall and waited.

 


	21. Chapter 21

SUNDAY, 16 AUGUST

 

Harry was going to miss this, he thought. He tossed the quaffle back at Ginny and dived to block Ron. The new Firebolt was definitely an improvement over the battered old Cleansweep or Shooting Stars. The heat of the day was building up, though and he could feel the sweat dripping down his back underneath his shirt. Harry dropped to the ground, wondering if he'd even have time for mucking about on brooms once he started his training at the Ministry.

 

“Let's go inside and get something to drink?”

 

Ginny and Ron dropped down beside him. George did a few lazy barrel rolls before joining them. Hermione closed her new seventh year transfiguration textbook and stood up from the chair she'd conjured for herself, banishing it behind her. Leaving their brooms propped against the garden wall (something Mrs Weasley would no doubt shout at her children for later), they filed inside behind Hermione, helping themselves to something cold before flopping down around the living room.

 

Harry squeezed himself in beside Hermione on the sofa, Ron on her other side. Ginny and George took up residence in a couple of the lumpy armchairs. Ron leaned around Hermione. “Don't suppose you're gonna tell us what was up with Snape yesterday? I could almost swear he was _crying_ if I didn't know any better.”

 

Harry hesitated and shrugged at him. “Just... having a bad day. Happens to everyone.”

 

Ron looked skeptical. “A ' _bad day_ '? Every day is a 'bad day' for him, I reckon. What was so different about yesterday?”

 

Harry felt annoyed, but knew there was some truth to Ron's statement. He was annoyed _because_ there was some truth to Ron's statement, but didn't say so. Also, it wasn't any of his business. Harry hadn't told his friends the entire story, yet, and wasn't sure if he ever would. He had a feeling that Snape wouldn't appreciate the connection they had now becoming general knowledge, if nothing else.

 

“He's human like the rest of us, okay? Just drop it, will you?”

 

Ron looked prepared to say something else, but Hermione elbowed him before he got the words out.

 

George, however, was well out of jabbing distance. “Human, eh? Always thought he might be a vampire myself. Of course, I've seen him eat stuff with garlic in, so...”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. It was an old rumor, much discussed around the common room in years past and so utterly uncreative that he was surprised George had even brought it up. “He's _not_ a vampire, George.”

 

George grinned at him, raising his pumpkin juice like he were toasting the man. “'Course not, mate, just a man with a serious grudge against ears.”

 

Harry definitely knew George was deliberately winding him up now, but his mild amusement didn't quite override his irritation. “He wasn't actually aiming for _you_ , you know.”

 

George just kept grinning at him while Ginny rolled her eyes.

 

“Fine, fine, so he's a bad shot. Bygones and all that. I'm happy for you, Harry, really I am. You've got messed up family all your own now to drive you spare. Cheers!”

 

Mr Weasley suddenly appeared in the door frame from the hallway. “Don't forget we've got an appointment at the Ministry tomorrow, Harry. I know you want your apparition license before September and their schedule's pretty packed right now, I'm not sure I could get you another slot in time if you miss it. Ron, yours is Thursday morning.”

 

“Ooh, can I come too? Wouldn't want to miss ickle Harry splinching himself!”

 

Harry pulled a cushion from behind his back and threw it at George's head while Ron and Ginny tried to muffle their laughter. Hermione stood up, shaking her head, and walked off toward the kitchen.

 

-

 

MONDAY, 17 AUGUST

 

Minerva was back in her office again (she was finally beginning to think of it as truly hers now), going back through the stack of CVs and trying to force herself to make some sort of decision. She was out of time, simply put. This should have been handled and put to bed a week ago. September was coming on like a freight train and people needed to be hired and oriented and moved into their offices and classrooms.

 

She'd interviewed two of the candidates for Muggle Studies that morning and settled on her original choice, a Muggle-born witch from Argentina who had resettled in London a few years ago as her husband had wanted to be closer to his aging parents. She seemed bright and enthusiastic and had taught primary school for several years back in her native country. How well she'd do with older students was an unknown quantity, but Minerva felt reasonably confident that the woman would adapt.

 

She picked up the file for the St. Mungo's veteran applying for Potions master again, sighing. He really was about as good she was going to get, given what was available. She'd have a try at negotiating with the retired curse-breaker for Defense, though. They might be able to scrounge a bit of extra funds from the school's endowment, if it came to it, although not quite as much as the woman wanted.

 

She was about to give up for the day when there was a sharp knock on her door. She hadn't expected any visitors, but perhaps Filch or Hagrid...

 

“Come in.”

 

At least she managed to contain her surprise when Severus Snape walked through the door, although she could not totally prevent a small, hesitant smile.

 

“Well, this is a bit of a surprise, I must confess. What can I do for you, Severus?”

 

The man seated himself in the visitor's chair across from her, pausing to glance around the room as though he were looking for something. He turned back to her a moment later.

 

“I have thought about... your offer. I suppose you may already have made other arrangements, but—“

 

“Which do you want, then? Potions or Defense? Although I suppose if you want Muggle Studies I will have to let Mrs Patiño-Williams know that her services won't be needed.”

 

He stared down at his hands in his lap, shaking his head very slightly.

 

“Whatever you require...”

 

Minerva glanced back at the two stacks of parchment, her mind working swiftly. _Ah, a solution presents itself_.

 

“Both, then.”

 

His head jerked up, looking at her in shock.

 

“But the courses _overlap_ , Minerva, surely...? Am I to use a time-turner, or...?”

 

She laughed at his discomfiture and failed to feel even a shred of guilt at leaving him hanging.

 

“Sixth and Seventh years, Severus. N.E.W.T.s level material only. That ought to keep you from getting too bored, and cut down on your endless frustration with the younger students' classroom manners. And I know Albus found your own classroom antics amusing or something, but _I_ will expect you to be _civil_.”

 

Minerva gave him a pointed look, waiting for him to protest or deny, but he did not react. If anything, he still looked somewhat lost. Minerva sighed and continued, wondering how long this strangely compliant mood would last (probably only until the first cauldron exploded, she guessed).

 

“In any case, I'm afraid I am not terribly impressed with your potential replacements in either subject this year. I've pulled the two most likely candidates, but both have problems.”

 

“Who will teach the lower forms, then?”

 

Minerva grabbed the two candidates she had, if not exactly favored, found the least distasteful, and tossed them toward her colleague (as he was once again, _finally_ ). The curse-breaker's desired salary would be less burdensome as a part-time position if she were willing to accept it, and Severus could keep tabs on the St. Mungo's veteran if he slacked off on theory for the younger students, at least. He picked up the Defense candidate first, reading over each page carefully before handing it back to her.

 

“Seems... adequate. Not sure I approve of her requested salary, however. She does not seem to have taught in a school environment before, perhaps she does not understand that Hogwarts does not work like Gringotts?”

 

“I haven't a clue, to be honest. That point will have to be negotiated, as we cannot afford all that she wants, but if she's willing to work part time and take a more reasonable fee, well enough then. I will be speaking with her before the end of the week, so we shall see. If not, I'll pull another from the stack, although none of them are impressive.”

 

He picked up the other stack of parchment. He read slowly for a moment, then quirked an eyebrow, his lip curling as he glanced through the remainder with impatience.

 

“Minerva, you know my opinion of this sort. You can't possibly think this young man is suitable? I do vaguely remember him, I think. Ravenclaw, finished about ten years ago, perhaps? He wasn't a poor student, but there was nothing at all exceptional about him, as far as I recall. That he has spent a few years churning out standard antidotes does not make him qualified to teach this subject.”

 

“I won't argue with you, Severus. But if you'd like to look at the rest, I assure you that you will not find anyone better on offer at the moment. They are all like that this year. Mr. Wright seems the least odious of the lot, I'm afraid.”

 

Severus glared at her over the edge of the parchment, unswayed by her argument. Minerva did not flinch under his stare.

 

“I had thought to give you oversight of his curriculum, if you don't mind the extra task. If you think he is neglecting any portion of it, you are welcome to correct him and I will support you fully.”

 

“I suppose that will be... adequate.”

 

Minerva conjured a second teacup and pushed the pot over toward him, in case he was planning on beating a swift retreat now that he'd agreed to return. She was getting tired of his habits of avoidance.

 

“I suppose this may be a personal question, but what changed your mind, exactly? I had gotten the impression that you were utterly bent on locking yourself away entirely.”

 

Severus turned aside, looking at a spinning model of the heavens that had once belonged to Albus Dumbledore (which Minerva had taken out of storage and restored to its former place earlier that morning on some sentimental whim).

 

Minerva shook her head and scooped up the applications, putting the two she intended to interview onto one side of the desk and shoving the rest away in a drawer to respond to by post later.

 

“Well, keep your reasons to yourself, I suppose. But I am glad you are back, Severus, whatever swayed you.”

 

Severus smiled at the celestial model. Not a sarcastic smile, or a sad one, or that weird little half-smile he had when he'd just said something he thought was clever.

 

“Harry told me to return. I am not sure why I listened.”

 

Well, then. That is a surprise. But an oddly pleasing one, she thought.

 

“Because it was an imminently reasonable and sound suggestion, perhaps? I always said he was quite a bright boy, whatever you might have protested.”

 

He snorted at the praise.

 

“I will concede that he is not a complete idiot, but I don't know that I would go _that_ far. No, I think at the time he could have told me to dance a jig on the roof of Hagrid's hut and I might have at least considered the idea.”

 

The man's smile evaporated. He reached over and gave an orb a flick with one finger, setting the entire model into motion.

 

“He's done something to me, Minerva. It is... deeply worrisome, in a way, but I do not know what to do about it.”

 

Minerva hesitated for a moment, then stood, crossing the room to pull a book off of a side table where she'd been reading it a few days before.

 

“I've been debating on whether or not to show this to you, Severus, but I think it might be better if you knew. I had wondered about that spell Smethwyck had used on the two of you, remembered something I'd read many years ago. It took a few hours of digging through the restricted section in the Library last week, but I finally found something whose description matched what I witnessed at St Mungo's.” She paused, her earlier irritation returning. “Smethyck's explanation, I'm afraid, was rather inadequate. I suspect he somewhat misled Harry, and the rest of us, to a degree, quite deliberately. I never did like the man, he is far too enthusiastic about _experimenting_ on people.”

 

She handed the book to him and returned to her seat behind the desk. The portrait of Albus Dumbledore was watching them from his frame, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

 

Severus opened the book to the page where she had tucked a leather bookmark. The script was a faded thin, looping handwriting in a style of language that dated it to about the mid 19 th  century, perhaps. Half the page was covered in a complicated diagram with a rather ostentatious illuminated heading above.

 

_A Communion of Souls_

 

He dropped the book into his lap, shutting his eyes against a returning sense of panic. _It's already done, there is no undoing it now. Just face it already._

 

He forced himself to continue reading. The description was couched in highly flowery, obtuse metaphor, drawing heavily on religious symbolism. The actual instructions were only slightly more practical. He wanted to throw the book across the room in frustration, but knew it wouldn't change anything. However he read it, one thing was clear – his soul and and the soul of Harry Potter had been re-attuned to one another quite thoroughly.

 

 _Donating a bit of his innate magic_ , indeed. It had the _side effect_ of mingling two witches' or wizards' magical signatures and allowing damage to one to be ameliorated by the other's, but it wasn't even the primary intended purpose of the spell. Smethwyck hadn't “somewhat misled” Harry; he'd outright _lied_.

 

No wonder he couldn't stand in close proximity to the boy, now, without knowing intimately what he was feeling. It was like striking a tuning fork and bringing it alongside another of the same pitch – the one would always cause the other to sound in return.

 

There were uncomfortable similarities with what Harry had experienced with Voldemort and the horcrux that the child had carried for sixteen years, linking the two mind and psyche and soul. That Severus had been put in the Dark Lord's former place in his son's life, in even small measure, was not lost on him and it made his heart ache with an unexpected regret.

 

It was not the _same_ , though, not by a long shot. It was not even dark magic, strictly speaking – no actual _harm_ was done to either participant, although if forced upon the unwilling or unknowing, as Smethwyck had done, it was certainly highly unethical. He snapped the book shut and slammed it down on Minerva's desk, incensed.

 

“I should curse that man.”

 

“You would not be the first in line.”

 

“Am I correct in assuming there is no way to reverse this?”

 

“Not without doing great harm to the both of you. I did look for something, although I am not convinced it needs reversing. But from what I have come to understand, your souls would be essentially shredded from any attempt. You'd both end up like Voldemort or something even more diminished.”

 

She smiled at him sadly but not unkindly.

 

“Severus, this is not the end of the world. The two of you were already more alike in some ways than either of you would probably ever care to admit. This... bond... between the two of you has already proved itself to be healing for the both of you, it seems. Perhaps you'd best be served by accepting it for what it is. I don't see that you have much choice, anyhow. Do try to make the best of it?”

 

She then smiled like a cat about to pounce.

 

“Of course, if you think it will make you feel better, by all means do find Smethwyck and hex him into jelly. Just let me know when you plan on going, I should like to watch.”

 

-

 

“I told you Hogwarts had not seen the last of Severus Snape.”

 

“Oh do shut up, Albus.”

 

_Bloody portrait._

 


	22. Chapter 22

SUNDAY, 30 AUGUST

 

Harry perched himself on a lab bench in his old potions classroom, feet swinging lazily over the edge as he watched his father argue heatedly with a young-looking man who had cheerfully introduced himself to Harry mere minutes earlier as Archibald Wright.

 

“I have these stores organized in a reasonable and logical manner, I will not have you coming in here on a whim and making a disaster of it every time you—“

 

“I hardly see what difference it makes, so long as everything is labeled clearly and kept tidy! None of them are even cross-reactive—“

 

“The banshee's saliva is very much reactive with the dried balsamina, _violently_ so, or perhaps you have forgotten such trivial details in a decade of endless repetition?”

 

Harry leaned back, bracing himself on the heels of his hands, ignored for the moment by the both of them. He pulled out his somewhat diminished pack of sugar quills from Neville and removed one to chew on while enjoying the free entertainment. His father's glance darted his way for only a fraction of a second and the quill shot out of his mouth at a subtle twitch of the man's wand at his side, the offending item landing deftly in the bin near the door. Wright continued his useless argument, not even noticing the movement.

 

“As long as the lids are on I don't see how—“

 

“The lids are _not_ always on, _Archie_. The first and second years especially are notorious for sloppy clean-up and even older students cannot always be bothered to fasten them down properly when they are too keen to get into a bit of mischief in the corridors before the next period starts. I have had to re-seal and clean more leaking cross-threaded jar lids, crooked corks and loose stoppers between classes than I can remember over the years and basic safety rules such as not _storing materials together which may combust when combined_ cannot be neglected unless you want to explain to the headmistress why hundreds of galleons' worth of ingredients have suddenly gone up in smoke!”

 

With Archibald Wright suitably cowed for the moment, the man briefly turned his ire on Harry without even pausing for breath.

 

“And _you_ have not been gone for so long as to forget such a fundamental rule as the ban on consumption of food in this classroom!”

 

Harry blushed and slid off the bench to stand properly. His father swept past his humiliated colleague, black billowing robes whipping at the man's shins like an insult, and retrieved a list of new and returning students from the desk.

 

“Come along, Harry, we have things to discuss.”

 

Harry dutifully followed him out of the room and down the hall to a previously disused office that Snape had taken up residence in a few days before. He sat down behind the desk, dropping the list into a drawer and clearly expecting Harry to seat himself without prompting. He held out a hand toward Harry expectantly.

 

“Well, hand it over!”

 

Harry pulled out the roll of parchment that the Ministry had sent over along with his acceptance letter into the Auror training program and gave it without comment.

 

Snape unrolled it and scanned over the Ministry's assessment of his son's education and listing of what they deemed inadequate.

 

“Do you know who they intend to tutor you in these subjects?”

 

“They haven't told me yet, just that it would take up most of my evenings for the next six months, and afterward I should not expect a free Saturday before summer. Robards told me that we'll still be expected to attend all the same practical sessions as the traditionally qualified trainees from the beginning, which will take up four and a half days most weeks. Fridays will be half days for the sessions, mostly, if the draft timetable they gave me doesn't get changed. Apparently they are going about things a bit differently this year than they have in the past, since they are so short-handed.”

 

“Hm. I will contact Robards and see if he will give me a copy of their planned curriculum and allow me to conduct your potions instruction myself. I do not trust them to find someone competent.”

 

Harry was slightly taken aback. The man might be his father, but had certainly never cared for having him in the classroom at all.

 

“Are you really sure you want to spend that much time—“

 

“I will not have your life jeopardized by something poorly brewed. Even if you end up not brewing your own potions, you at least need to be able to recognize something that has been improperly made or adulterated, which is not always as simple as it sounds. They can provide me a list of what they intend for you to learn and you can floo over in the evenings or on weekends as your schedule allows.”

 

Harry was close enough to him to feel the odd ambivalence in him. Worry mingled with something akin to frustration or annoyance. Possibly with Wright, but Harry did not think so. It felt like something directed inward rather than outward, like he wanted to say something but could not. Or would not.

 

Harry filed the observations away, trying to stay focused on the conversation at hand.

 

“What about Ron and Neville—“

 

“Longbottom and Weasley are not my concern. If you wish to pass on your knowledge to them after the fact, that is your own affair.”

 

Snape picked the parchment up again, re-reading something.

 

“They do not apparently think you have missed anything important from the final year of Defense, but I disagree. We can address that as well. Professor McGonagall might be willing to lend a bit of her time to bringing you up to speed on Transfiguration, although she is still teaching in addition to her duties as Headmistress and it may not be feasible. We'll see who the Ministry brings in and deal with it at the time. Now for Charms—“

 

Harry groaned, letting his head fall back against the chair. Snape leaned forward slightly and sneered across at him, his annoyance unequivocally aimed outward this time, directly at Harry.

 

“You have chosen a very difficult and _dangerous_ career for yourself, Harry. Did you really expect that your days of studying were past? This is not the time to start _slacking off!_ Your very survival could come down to what you know. Do not think that just because the Dark Lord and a few Death Eaters have met their fates that the world is suddenly _safe_ ; the same arrogance, greed and prejudice that spawned them will bring more out of the woodwork soon or later and you must be prepared to meet them!”

 

His voice was angry and strident, full of long-suffering exasperation, but Harry felt a latent tinge of genuine fear threading between them, one with a potential for eventually evolving into actual panic. Thoughts of Mrs Weasley suddenly came to mind and the utter incongruity of it left him feeling a bit dizzy.

 

The man was _worried_ about him _,_ and in a very present way that had little or nothing to do with ancient regrets or debts. The Ministry could find tutors for their Auror trainees easily enough, after all, but here was something Snape could _control_ , knowing full well that in a couple of years, Harry would be on his own and very much outside of his aegis.

 

Harry almost felt sorry for him, but mostly felt sort of warm inside.

 

Snape finished his lecture and sat back in his seat, looking at Harry oddly now. Perhaps Harry's own incongruous emotions had confused him. Harry started to stand up to leave.

 

“One moment before you go. I will return shortly.”

 

Harry sat back down as Snape stood up and left the room. A few minutes later, he returned with an old book tucked under one arm. He sat down again and pushed the book across the desk toward Harry as though he were reticent to handle it more than necessary.

 

“I've put this off, but I suppose you have a right to know what's been done to you. Your old friend Smethwyck is a liar.”

 

Harry pulled the book closer and opened the cracked leather cover, glancing at a hand-written index with a nasty sense of déjà vu.

 

“Page two hundred and seventeen, if you will. I think you will recognize the description, even if you were not awake during the performance.”

 

He did as he was told.

 

“'A Communion of Souls,' huh. Sounds a bit overly dramatic for a bit of magic mixing... er... _oh_.”

 

“' _Oh_ ' indeed. Care to share any other brilliant commentary?”

 

Harry ignored the snark and continued his study of the passage. The handwriting wasn't the easiest to read, and whoever had written it sounded rather pretentious, or maybe it had just been a really bored monk or priest. He picked up the book, tilting it to the side and drawing it closer, trying to make out the minute marks on the diagram.

 

“Doesn't make a whole lot of sense, really, but it sounds like it, er... sort of re-tuned our souls or something? Weird. Never knew souls were like pianos.” Harry laughed quietly at the image. “I wonder what they sound like?”

 

Snape seemed horrified at his levity.

 

“A dangerous and exceedingly invasive spell was performed upon you under false pretenses, and all you can do is _joke_ about it?”

 

Harry thought about it for a moment. “Well, it worked, didn't it? You're well again.”

 

Snape pinched at the bridge of his nose.

 

“Smethwyck described it as 'donating a bit of your innate magic,' I believe were his words. In what way does that even remotely resemble what you just read?”

 

Harry shrugged, closing the book and pushing it back across the desk. “It doesn't, I suppose, except that one footnote. Funny sort of spell though, if that's not what it was actually meant to do. I'm not sure what practical purpose it could even have otherwise.”

 

Snape rested his elbows on his desk, bringing his fingertips together in front of him. “There was a sort of... movement... a kind of spiritualism, I suppose you might call it, that was popular among witches and wizards during the time period this book was written. Quite a lot of very powerful but fairly pointless spells of this type were created or re-popularized at the time. This is one of the less harmful iterations, to be quite honest. There was a lot of dabbling in outright necromancy going on at the time, as well; fools trying to summon demons and spirits and commune with the dead, among other things.”

 

“Doesn't surprise me, I guess. People get up to all sorts of odd things for no good reason.”

 

Harry rubbed at the back of his neck, his own anxiety feeding off of Snape's. The whole thing was just bizarre, really. Snape pulled the book back across the desk and into his lap, staring down at it. His hair fell forward, covering much of his face. Harry took a deep breath, feeling him building up to something, perhaps.

 

“Harry, I am... truly sorry, for this.”

 

Harry waited for him to say something else, to explain what he meant, but nothing was forthcoming.

 

“Sorry for what? You didn't cast the spell, or even agree to it. As I recall, you weren't even fully conscious at the time.”

 

Snape shook his head, lank black hair swinging side to side, but he did not look up again.

 

“This connection between us. I'm not ignorant of what you experienced with Voldemort and this—“

 

Harry cut him off immediately, not wanting to remain silent while the man took on yet more guilt, this time entirely without warrant.

 

“No, this is absolutely _nothing_ like Voldemort and that horcrux. Don't even _say_ that. How can you even _think_ that? It's not like that at all.”

 

Harry found himself rubbing at his scar for the first time in months, as though he could wipe it away. He flushed with anger, not at Snape, but at Voldemort for everything he'd ever done to this man, and to himself and everyone else. How could Snape think they were the same, even a bit?

 

Harry knew arguing was useless. Once Snape got an idea like _this_ into his head, so utterly sure of the soundness of his logic, it was nearly impossible to pull him off of it without practically shoving him down nose-first into the truth. _Well, if that's what it takes..._

 

Harry got up, dragging the spindly high-backed chair behind him and dropping it down next to his father's, and sat so close that their arms were touching. He leaned over, letting his head drop to the man's shoulder. Snape flinched beside him, confused at his behavior, but Harry did not back down.

 

“Well, what do you feel, then? Do you still think I'm completely miserable?”

 

Snape seemed frozen where he was, stiffening but unable to move away. Harry was afraid he might begin shedding tears again, but it was no matter either way. Harry simply leaned more of his weight onto him, letting the man's anxiety pass over him like water.

 

“I'm not afraid of you, haven't been in a long time. You don't wake me up in the middle of the night with visions of horrific murders or split my head open with fits of rage. _You are not hurting me_. Please believe me. _Please_.”

 

Minutes passed in silence before Snape finally spoke, barely audible.

 

“This is not a burden you should have to bear.”

 

 _That's_ what he was tearing himself up about? Harry would have laughed, if he knew it wouldn't wound him.

 

“I've had far heavier. Really, this is nothing. This... this is light as a phoenix feather.” He did laugh that time. Snape lifted his head by a mere fraction, glancing at him out of a corner of an eye through a curtain of black hair before turning away again.

 

Harry felt something unwind beside him, just ever so slightly. Well, it was a start, perhaps. He stood up finally, dragging the chair back to its place on the other side of the desk and sitting again. Snape remained where he was, almost but not quite looking at Harry.

 

Harry took a moment and glanced around the room, the unpacked boxes and stacks of books and thick layer of dust over the empty shelves. He hated the thought of that young teacher taking over the old Potions master's office, somehow. Not that he'd miss all the weird dead things floating in jars, which might well be in some of the boxes here and returning to view soon, but Wright just seemed so utterly out of place.

 

“I'll find out tomorrow during orientation about these remedial courses they're giving us. From what Savage said before, the first week is mostly just them getting us used to the Ministry and the program itself, more than anything, the hard stuff comes later. I'll send Fawkes over with the details once I have them.”

 

Snape shifted in his seat, finally looking at him almost normally again, although he could feel that the man was still a bit rattled. Harry decided to be graceful about it and not mention it.

 

“Fawkes? Not Albus Dumbledore's—“

 

Harry smiled, shaking his head.

  
“No, just a common barn owl, but I couldn't think of anything better to name her. Seems a lot of things are starting over fresh now, though.”

 

Snape didn't respond for several moments, but gave him a snide look, all of a sudden.

 

“When exactly are you planning on getting a haircut, by the way? I think your hair is longer than mine, now.”

 

Well, now the shoe was on the other foot. He'd noticed the man had a habit of shifting the topic onto the someone else's problem, usually with a thick layer of sarcasm, when something started to bother him. It was sort of obnoxious, really.

 

“Dunno. I suppose I ought to.”

 

“I'm sure you can spare the loose change. Or if you don't particularly care how it turns out, Molly Weasley has probably been cutting her sons' hair for years. I can't imagine you wanting to turn up at the Ministry tomorrow looking like a wastrel. It's a bit.. uneven.”

 

Now Harry was the one squirming where he sat. He shrugged and tried to act nonchalant but knew that Snape could feel him just as easily as he'd felt out Snape before. It was hard to drop certain habits, even now that they both knew immediately when it was an affectation.

 

“You're one to talk.”

 

There went that cocked eyebrow again. “I'm not trying to make an impression on anyone.”

 

“Neither am I, really. At least not with _hair_ , I'm not Gilderoy Lockhart. 'Course neither is he anymore, exactly... Anyway, I just never had to cut it before, it always stayed the same length no matter what. My aunt used to get angry at how messy it was and take me somewhere cheap to get it cut. A few times she just held me down and hacked it all off out of spite or something.” He tried not to cringe, but failed, shuddering at the sudden feeling of a weight bearing down on him, the memory of his aunt straddling him on the floor of the kitchen wielding a pair of scissors like a weapon.

 

What a stupid thing to get upset over, after everything. He shrugged off the feeling, or tried to. “It was always the same again by the time I woke up the next morning, whatever she did. I guess that charm kept it looking like James's hair, or maybe I did. Or both. I don't really know.”

 

Snape was still sneering, but he wasn't sneering at _him_ anymore at least.

 

“That woman's disposition certainly did not improve with age.”

 

“Not in the least,” Harry agreed, somewhat able to put his feelings about her aside now that he knew he'd probably never have to speak to her again (although he did still want to catch up with Dudley again at some point). “But I don't mind it, really. They don't actually disallow long hair, although I'll have to keep it tied back during practical exercises, I think. Bit of a pain to wash out every day but it's not like it'll kill me.”

 

Snape recognized the mild jab, but let it pass, for some reason. He was going a bit soft, maybe. What an odd idea.

 

“Your aunt... well. I knew her when we were children. She was always jealous of your mother, terribly so. Went rather 'sour grapes' on the subject of magic all the way around.”

 

Harry nodded, a little surprised at the casual conversation. What a difference a few months had made. It was... unbelievable really. Maybe the connection between them wasn't completely useless after all, as hurting Harry would mean hurting himself, in a way.

 

Harry rubbed at his neck, his loose, long hair feeling soft over his knuckles. He really _didn't_ have any particular desire to cut it, and not just because the idea rattled him. He still didn't think Ginny's old suggestion of a beard was too good of one, though. If nothing else, it was too _itchy_ an idea. Maybe when he was as old as Dumbledore had been.

 

One thought occurred to him, suddenly, and he wasn't sure why he hadn't asked it before as it seemed obvious. _Might as well make use of his generous mood while it lasts._

 

“I don't suppose _you_ have any sort of family left?”

 

“Beside yourself?”

 

“Beside me, yeah.”

 

“Not really.”

 

“Not... ' _really_.' But... well I guess you wouldn't tell me anyway if your parents—

 

Harry could feel Snape's reticence and looked away, giving him a bit of space. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to ask.

 

“My father died the summer after I finished my seventh year. Drank himself to death. And I am only telling you this because such habits can sometimes run in families and you ought to be aware of a potential problem.”

 

Harry nodded, accepting the answer for what it was. He felt he'd learned his lesson about strong drink back at the Three Broomsticks that night anyway.

 

“I suppose you'll ask about my mother next but I cannot honestly tell you. She left when I was sixteen and I have not seen her since. I believe she went to Germany, where some distant cousins lived, and she had started talking about them shortly before she went away. She may or may not still be there.”

 

“You don't want to find her?”

 

“No. I would not suggest that you seek her, either. If she lives, she knows exactly where _I_ am; if she wanted to contact me she could do so without undue effort. Furthermore, her cousins are descended from a long line of blood purists and would not welcome either of us.”

 

“Oh.” Harry fidgeted in his seat, unsure what to say to that.

 

“Minerva is probably expecting you to stay for dinner, but it is up to you. If you would rather return to the Burrow and spend your last free evening with your friends, she will understand.”

 

Harry nodded, grateful for the unspoken offer to excuse him. He and Ron would be getting up with Ron's father to head to the Ministry in the morning and Ginny would be on the Hogwarts Express come Tuesday, as would Hermione. Hermione had already returned to her parents house to spend a few days with them before the first of September.

 

Snape stood to leave for the Great Hall while Harry retrieved the sheets of parchment now scattered across the desk he'd brought from the Ministry before using the floo to return to the Burrow.

 

He had picked up the tin of floo powder, but stopped, setting it back on the mantle on a whim. Before he lost his nerve, Harry dashed after his father, catching him up in an unexpected hug in the middle of the corridor, squeezing him tightly for a moment and leaving him standing in a daze.

 

It was only after Harry had stepped into the green flames that he realized his father had actually hugged him back, despite his impression of a goldfish afterward.

 


	23. Epilogue

SATURDAY, 16 JUNE 2013

 

“That one's a dragon!”

 

“Hardly. Looks more like a duck.”

 

“Noooo, it's a dragon! See the tail?”

 

“Duck eggs, clearly. They don't even join up.”

 

She rolled over, propping herself on her grandfather's chest, laughing down at his sour looking expression.

 

“It's not a duck, you're just silly, Grandfather.”

 

He smiled at her, running a hand over her long red hair. “Perhaps. But not as silly as Lily.”

 

She laughed again, wrapping her arms around him as he sat up, lifting her as he went. He groaned slightly as he pulled himself to his feet on the trunk of the oak tree with his granddaughter hanging onto his neck, feeling his joints popping and cracking, protesting after laying on damp grass for nearly an hour. She was really getting too big now to be carried around in such a fashion (or maybe he was just getting too old).

 

“Your mother probably has lunch ready, if those brothers of yours haven't upended the whole place in the meantime. We'd better head back.”

 

“Oh I don't think James will try anything today after yesterday. Mummy made him clean out the chicken coops after he crashed her broom at Grandma and Grandpa's yesterday. I think Daddy thought it was funny, though. But James got pecked, even. I don't think the chickens like him anymore after he tried to bring one home and hide it in Al's room that one time.”

 

“Hm. I still think your daddy may have made a mistaken when he chose that name for your brother. The two worst troublemakers Hogwarts ever knew. Well, second worst, perhaps, after your uncle George and his twin...” Severus shook his head in mock horror. 

 

In truth, it had bothered him immensely at first, when Harry had informed him of his firstborn's name. But in the end, despite his lingering enmity for the original owners of the names, even he had to admit that the two men had both died trying to protect Harry, and had died defying Voldemort, as Harry repeatedly pointed out. He was only marginally less horrified at his son's choices for his second grandson, his own re-purposed as the boy's middle name, which seemed an inordinately cruel punishment for the child.

 

Well, he'd learned to live with Harry's absurd sentimentality over the years. At least his Lily Luna had fared well.

 

“You'll have him in class next year, right?”

 

“No, not in class, at least not until he's a bit older, although I will certainly be seeing more of him.” 

 

And certainly keeping a keen eye out for the child, although the lad would probably end up in Gryffindor and be a problem for Longbottom to deal with, as the child's head of house. Between the two of them, and the Headmistress, they just  _ might _ be able to keep James from getting himself killed.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, he loves all his grandchildren, even the ones with silly names. He's just one of those crotchety, grumpy grandfathers (the sort who tell all the really fun, utterly non-age-appropriate bedtime stories).


	24. Appendix: Odds-n-Ends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll add bits and bobs to this page over time, starting with a sort of playlist of songs I listened to while writing this, and later on probably a few drawings and whatnots as the mood strikes, if you want to bookmark it.

CARRY THAT WEIGHT (AND SING ALONG)

Klaus Nomi - [The Cold Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wQrqgSK8-XU)

Eels - [Last Stop: This Town](https://youtu.be/0TfqbuTBqX8)

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - [Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nuxdMQsAgJI)

Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds - [Idiot Prayer](https://youtu.be/onjPvRCCDs0)

Kacey Musgraves - [Miserable](https://youtu.be/g8mQmwrFEEw)

Brandi Carlisle - [The Things I Regret](https://youtu.be/bem32zF_w48)

Smashing Pumpkins - [To Forgive](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCf5-lQpuvg)

Dead Can Dance - [Minus Sanctus](https://youtu.be/-Htuh5xsHeI)

Frightened Rabbit - [The Woodpile](https://youtu.be/KY4j8Ow-CTs)

Mumford & Sons - [The Cave](https://youtu.be/IgDNCmGr-Q4)

R.E.M. - [Why Not Smile](https://youtu.be/G19wAzk1dx0)

Beatles - [Blackbird](https://youtu.be/Mo_DMGc2v5o)

 

* * *

 

 

A quick explanation of the wood & core I chose for Severus Snape's wand (which JKR herself has never revealed):

**Core: Phoenix feather**

This might seem weird as most people are probably going to intuitively go for dragon heart-string (and I don’t entirely disagree) but I went with the Phoenix feather as I personally feel that it suits his character well.

From [Pottermore](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pottermore.com%2Fwriting-by-jk-rowling%2Fwand-cores&t=OGU2Y2EyNzFlYWE3MmFjNzRjZmQyYjA4NDcyYWYzZjJlMGQxYjNhYSxWTkhkSzNrcg%3D%3D):

_This is the rarest core type. Phoenix feathers are capable of the greatest range of magic, though they may take longer than either unicorn or dragon cores to reveal this. They show the most initiative, sometimes acting of their own accord, a quality that many witches and wizards dislike._

_Phoenix feather wands are always the pickiest when it comes to potential owners, for the creature from which they are taken is one of the most independent and detached in the world. These wands are the hardest to tame and to personalise, and their allegiance is usually hard won._

I prefer this for Snape not only because he shows a great range of skill in both performing and _creating_ spells (e.g. _Sectumsempra_ , a very destructive cutting hex, and _Vulnera Sanentur_ , a powerful healing spell, as well as more ambivalent spells like _Levicorpus_ and _Muffliato_ , which could be used for good or bad purposes, depending on what the caster is doing with it), but I also like the associations with rebirth/resurrection that are associated with the Phoenix myth and reflect the penitent/redemptive aspect to Snape’s character arc in the books - he died as a very changed man from who he was in his youth, despite all his enduring flaws. “Hard to tame” and “independent” also definitely fit the character. _  
_

**Wood: Blackthorn**

From[ Pottermore](http://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.pottermore.com%2Fwriting-by-jk-rowling%2Fwand-woods&t=M2EyZmY4MTA5Y2I4NGQzZWM1NTMwZmQzYzQ0M2I3ZDkwYjE1OTI2MyxWTkhkSzNrcg%3D%3D):

_Blackthorn, which is a very unusual wand wood, has the reputation, in my view well-merited, of being best suited to a warrior. This does not necessarily mean that its owner practises the Dark Arts (although it is undeniable that those who do so will enjoy the blackthorn wand’s prodigious power); one finds blackthorn wands among the Aurors as well as among the denizens of Azkaban. It is a curious feature of the blackthorn bush, which sports wicked thorns, that it produces its sweetest berries after the hardest frosts, and the wands made from this wood appear to need to pass through danger or hardship with their owners to become truly bonded. Given this condition, the blackthorn wand will become as loyal and faithful a servant as one could wish._

Firstly, Snape is undeniably a powerful wizard, and a skilled dueler. He has an established penchant for Dark Arts but that is certainly not all he is interested in or all he capable of. I think the odd, conflicted nature of Blackthorn reflects his character, and I like the fact this thorny member of the cherry/stone-fruit family produces its best fruits after enduring harsh conditions, which seems fitting.

 

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I've written a bit of backstory for this fic, but I'm not altogether comfortable posting it up on Ao3 or FFN, Because of Reasons. If you want to check it out, it's on my Tumblr [here.](http://pazithigallifreya.tumblr.com/post/145471317297/hokay-so)

 


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